


Winter Solstice

by baby_novak_winchester_67



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Bucky Barnes & Winter Soldier are Different Personalities, Bucky Barnes After Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Child Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Memory Loss, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Original Female Character, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Self-Harm, Smut, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Trial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 105,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baby_novak_winchester_67/pseuds/baby_novak_winchester_67
Summary: Most of the world doesn't know he exists. The intelligence community doesn't believe it. He's a phantom, a ghost story, a shadow. Appearing when ordered and disappearing when done. Made to forget, engineered to kill. But what happens when he meets someone he wasn't ordered to kill? What happens when he doesn't forget her? What if she makes him remember himself? Who he was? Who he is? And what about her? Her life mirrors his in unexpected ways, full of pain, fear, loss, abuse, violence, and people controlling her? Can they both escape from their pasts and those wishing to tether them and use them for their own means? Can they help each other be free? And will the world accept them after, or will what they've done always follow them? Will they escape one prison only to land in another? Will they always be seen as that which others have made them into? Will the longest night of the year ever end and allow them to step into the sunshine they deserve? Or will this winter solstice last forever?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Steve/Bucky friendship - Relationship
Comments: 92
Kudos: 46





	1. Kittens, Cameras, and Grenades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey, its me. I'm back. After like forever. Been a while. So this is it. The promised Bucky story. If you've read my last story welcome back, if you're new here then HI!!! Fair warning I tend to ramble in these notes but I do always put a TRIGGER WARNING in the beginning so people can be prepared. So if you want to skip my random babbling then just be sure to look for the capitalized TRIGGER WARNINGS and stay safe and well mentally as you read this.  
> All I can say right now is that this story isn't done being written and the way it is in my head it takes a lot of twists and turns. There's fluff and angst as always and some heavier topics. I've tried my best to write Bucky in character but its harrrrd. Especially because he's almost like two different characters as the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes, both of whom will be appearing here. Anyhoo I hope you enjoy the start of this new adventure, wherever it may take us. Happy reading!  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS for abuse, underage drinking, angst, fear of death, fear of rape, and depression plus moderate suicidal ideations.

The tiny kitten stares at me, huge, blue eyes like two drops of cerulean glitter in its little fluffy face. Its fur is so pure white and pristine that it makes the snow piled all around it look almost grey and dirty. I’ve named this kitten Icicle, because naming it Snowball would be too predictable and cliché and pathetic.

What’s also pathetic is that this kitten isn’t even real. It’s just a cat in a photograph, likely a heavily doctored one, on the calendar that hangs above my bed; the same calendar that has been hanging there for the past 5 years now. I’ve named all of the kittens that parade over the pages, trying to make the names something original, while still fitting in with the different months' kitten themes. The dates obviously don’t line up anymore but at least I have a way to slowly watch and mark the passing of the days. Only 196 more days to freedom. Only 6 more kittens.

January. That’s the page that Icicle kitten gambols across, frolicking in all its big blue-eyed, kitschy cuteness through the snow. Time for New Year’s resolutions, right? That old adage of _new year, new me!_ Sometimes I feel like my identity splits into two along one nice, even line. There’s a Good Kate that lives in me, and then there’s Bad Kate. I guess they’re kinda like the proverbial devil and angel on my shoulders but they don’t really try to entice me to be either good or bad the way these things are usually portrayed to do in movies. They don’t bicker back and forth with each other, just point out certain things to themselves and I’m just standing in the middle and usually never do what either of them says. I dunno… It’s hard to describe, but right now Good Kate is whispering that maybe we should give New Year’s Resolutions a chance, what’ve we got to lose? Bad Kate is still hung up on her hatred of the calendar, reminding me that we don’t even like cats!

I turn my back in the forever-frozen-in-fun-times kitten and stand instead in front of my closet which is so pitifully bare and devoid of anything even the least bit fashionable, trendy, or pretty. I’m nineteen years old and in my senior year of high school. You’d think that dubious honor would afford me even one new outfit, wouldn’t you?! But no. My father might make decent bank but he spends all the money he makes supporting his and my mother’s various bad habits. My dad’s vice is alcohol, my mom's prescription drugs _and_ alcohol. Generally doesn’t leave much left over to spend on me, even if they happened to give a damn, which they don’t. I haven’t gotten an allowance since I was about 6 which was when they first started forgetting that I existed. I do manage to steal the occasional bill from them but there’s rarely anything but ones and twos left over and every time I filch something I feel so enormously guilty that I’m sure I’ll be struck down with a heaven-sent bolt of lightning any second now. It’s irrational, I know– why should I care about stealing change from them when they so obviously don’t care a penny for me… Guess I’m just wired that way. A pushover! 

Strangely enough there’s another thing that I steal from them that I don’t feel guilty about…

Speaking off… I slam my closet door shut with more force than warranted, ignoring Bad Kate who wants us to indulge in a pity party lamenting the fact that we don’t have any cute clothes, and make my way over to my bed. Good Kate is actually siding with Bad Kate for once, cheering on the idea of the pity party because she knows what my alternative goal is and she doesn’t approve. I ignore her too. With trembling hands I reach for the plastic bottle full of clear liquid on my nightstand, that if anyone were to bother to look, would believe to be water. If they then opened it that illusion would quickly be shattered by the fumes it would emit. Vodka. Numbness. Bliss!

I unscrew the cap and take a big swallow, feeling the alcohol burn its way down my windpipe.

“Katherine!” the piercing screech echoes through the house and slams into my ears like an icepick, sending dread charging through me. My eyes close as my fingers clench around the bottle with a plasticky crinkle. Quickly I chug down another two or three swallows. I’ll need them!

“ _Katherine!!!_ ” her shrieks are fast approaching an octave and decibel that only bats will pick up, and I know that if she has to scream for me again there’ll be hell to pay. Even more than there already is now.

“Coming, mom.” I shout through the door and stand up. Blackness squiggles into my vision telling me that I stood up too fast. I grab onto the bed post to steady myself. My mother won’t care about a skewed equilibrium though or if I pass out on the way and fall down the stairs. And so I make my way over to the door and downstairs, blinking hard to clear the dark fuzzy spots from my vision, and holding on to the railing the entire time, already feeling the wonderful float-y feeling that my Russian best friend provides.

I can physically feel her glowering at me as soon as I enter the living room. She sits in her usual spot on the couch surrounded by her pill bottles and cans of Pabst. The smell of rank sweat and stale alcohol that hovers around her like a constant cloudy fog assaults my nose. She has some kind of a sinus problem but she refuses to get it checked by a doctor since it’s unlikely that she’ll get prescribed any drugs for it. So now as a result she can barely breathe through her nose which makes every breath she takes a kind of wheezing rattle. Her hair hangs stringy and matted around her pallid, doughy face, and her eyes glitter maliciously at me; muddy brown, set deep into her skull.

God, I hate her!

“What do you need, Mom?”

“Watch the attitude, missy!” she barks. There was no attitude; I just asked her what she needed in the usual submissive tone of voice I reserve for her. But she loves finding fault with whatever I do.

“Sorry, Mom.” I mumble.

Apparently that was cheeky too because she rises out of her sofa nest and totters towards me. 

I cringe instinctively.

Apparently my ingrained fear of her pleases her because a fat, smug smile stretches her slack mouth.

“Make me dinner!” she commands with the authority of a thousand queens. 

“What would you like?”

Wrong thing to say. She shoves me hard and I stumble backwards, smashing my elbow into the corner of the antique dresser that stands silent sentry behind me. The china display plates inside rattle ominously while pain tingles through my arm. _Fack!_ Why do they call this the funny bone again? Hitting it isn’t even remotely funny!

“Watch it, you clumsy cow!” my mother screeches, completely overlooking the fact that she was the one who pushed me in the first place. “And don’t you ask me what I want. Use some initiative for once in your life and figure something out. Good God!”

She turns from me in disgust, falling like a sack of flour back into the permanent dent she’s worn into the sofa cushions these past few years. I feel tears prick my eyes as I flee to the kitchen. There I start to pull together all the trimmings of a dinner that I won’t get to eat. I don’t particularly care much. I’ll eat later when she falls asleep, _if_ the alcohol I aspire to consume leaves any appetite around… 

I make a salad and some pasta with left over sauce that I dig out of the freezer. I dump it into a pot to defrost and spend a good fifteen minutes hacking at the frozen block. It kills time and lets the effects of the vodka kick in even more. I feel it slowly slosh over me like a warm wave of water. My energy spikes as I feel suddenly lighter and happier. The after effects of my mother’s treatment start to matter less and less until I feel literally ready to laugh it off.

When her dinner is ready I bring it out to her then sit down on the bottom stair out of her sight but still close enough to be there at a moment’s notice when she’s done eating. I curl up small, wrapping my arms around my legs and resting my chin on my knees. I close my eyes enjoying the feelings that bubble inside me. It’s my only escape from my miserable existence, and it’s all that makes me in any way happy and makes my life bearable. I’d told myself that I wouldn’t become dependent but I know deep down that at this point I am. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to break the habit once I’m out of this hell hole after graduation but I’m not sure if I can. I’m not too bothered about it yet though. I’ll worry about that when the time comes…

As often happens during these times when I sit quietly waiting for my mom to yell some more orders at me I think about how it used to be; how _she_ used to be. She was once a regular mom; a good mom. What a horrible, horrible child I must have been to make her go so completely twisted…

When she calls me back I go and retrieve her dirtied plates and cutlery. “Bring me some wine!” she orders.

Like a well trained little puppy I scurry to the kitchen and fill a glass to the brim with the cheap boxed wine that always stands in the fridge. I have no idea where it comes from, her constant supply of alcohol because clearly I can’t purchase it for her, being under 21 and all. She doesn’t know about my fake ID, nor will she ever be told about it. I can only assume that my dad brings the stuff for her since the last time she left the house was when I was 10. I never see my dad bring the stuff either though, and I know she doesn’t filch it from him since he tends to do his drinking out of house. He does keep our liquor cabinet well stocked which is how I get my supply, except for the vodka. That I usually purchase myself when my pilfered funds permit. It always hits me the hardest and for this reason alone it’s my favourite; never mind that it tastes the way industrial toilet cleaner smells. The “borrowed" concoction though I call the Dirty Kitchen Sink. I pour just a little from each bottle into my pink thermos; just a bit, not enough for him to really notice anything is missing. If he does notice I assume that he thinks he drank it himself. So annoying when you’re so drunk that you can’t even remember drinking your own stock… or maybe he knows it’s me but doesn’t care. Either option is quite plausible. But anyway I guess he must bring it for Mom and he knows what she likes because there’s never a shortage. True love? Could be…

I bring the glass back out to her. I try to set it down on the little table beside her at the same time as she reaches out to take it from me. Our hands collide, sending a small wave of red over my hand and her various pill bottles that stand clustered together always within her reach.

Crap!

She yanks the glass from my grip spilling even more over the sofa and her Afghan, which doesn’t really matter since both are disgusting with food stains anyway. 

I squeeze my eyes shut in anticipation knowing all to well what’s coming…

_Wham!_

The backhanded blow catches me under the eye and knocks me off my feet. I look up at her determining in a nanosecond whether to stay down or get back up. I scramble to my feet wincing in anticipation of the next hit that’s guaranteed to come if I read her wrong.

I didn’t. She snorts in disgust and turns from me to start chugalugging her wine. “Clean up the mess you made!” is all the further instructions I get. 

“Okay, Mom.”

Her harpy head swings back around to me, threat oozing from every one of her clogged pores. “You sassing me?”

“No Mom, no. I’m sorry.” I hate the wheedling, whingeing tone of my voice but I’m helpless to stop it just as I’m helpless to turning this tide of my life. She’s done her job on my mind and spirit for too long now, starting when I was still a wee lass, naïve and impressionable. Now even though I know it’s wrong my brain is still wired that way and washed by her and I can never quite get myself to stand up for myself.

I run to get a wet rag from the kitchen and use it to mop up the spilled wine. I wipe down a few of her precious pill bottle that were in the crossfire, making sure to place them back in their exact spot in the grouping. She knows without looking where each one of them is by location alone. 

“Oh, leave off!” she grunts as she leans around me trying to keep the TV in sight. I back up out of her line of vision unsure if she wants anything else but hesitant to ask, after her earlier reaction.

“Get out of my sight, you’re giving me the heebie-jeebies with your gawking!”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice! I retreat to the kitchen, quickly washing up the dirty dishes and then I hurry upstairs. There I sit in the center of the room after folding back the carpet. I pull up the single loose floorboard there and retrieve my greatest treasure. A Canon EOS Rebel. I saved up for two years to be able to afford this baby. It’s my pride and joy and the only thing that keeps me somewhat sane; somewhat of course being relative! And it only cost about 800 buck and several tonnes of guilt for every dollar I stole, and the other… more morally questionable… things I did to be able to afford it. I am a bad person!

Bad Kate concurs. Good Kate only vaguely shakes her head as she recalls just what I did to make that extra money. She makes a half-hearted attempt at reassuring me that _it wasn’t all that bad. Lots of women do it and it was **your choice!**_ But she’s drowned out by Bad Kate faux coughing the word _slut_ over and over.

I ignore them both.

Photography is the only normal, untainted hobby I have, the others being moderately recreational alcoholism, chain smoking, stealing, night time wanderings, insomnia, sometimes taking and selling lewd pictures of my body, being a slave in my own house, being used a punching bag by my mother, and being ignored by my father. The all around American girl, that’s me! Not!

But when I have a camera in front of my face I can forget all of that. When I’m checking shutter setting, speed, light, exposure and all that jazz, everything shitty in my life doesn’t matter. When I’m out and about trying to find subjects to snap and then determining the perfect artsy angles at which to snap them, I don’t think about anything else. It’s cathartic. It’s fucking therapy. If anything were to happen to my camera I think I’d go nuts!

I settle back and start to scroll through the pictures I took last night. Most days when the sun sets I hit the pavement. Sleep hasn’t been my friend in years and I’m usually able to get away with two or three hours plus the occasional cat nap during classes while still remaining somehow fully functional. Plus points for alcohol! W00t!

I alternate my nights between binge drinking and chain smoking in the seedier parts of town, and tromping through various Washington DC parks searching for things to take pictures off. I never take my camera along when I do the former. I’m too afraid I’ll have it lifted off me or that I’ll accidentally break it in a drunken haze. 

Most of my work is night shoots because I rarely take the camera out during the day. I do take a photography class at school; the best subject that decrepit pile a bricks has to offer in my humble opinion. But there I use a school sanctioned and provided camera which while still decent quality does not compare to what my little Giselle can do. And yes, I’ve named my camera. Sue me!

My teacher lets me use the dark room on the lam once a week at lunch time to develop my favourite pictures from my night time excursions, and all he asks in return is that I let him unofficially grade them. Extra credit if you please. I usually don’t like showing off my work but for this deal I do not mind! My GPA desperately needs any boost it can get.

I shuffle through the pictures, deleting the occasional one and marking down which ones I’ll want to develop this week. I have a whole bunch more than usual right now because I’ve been off school for winter break for the past two weeks so I have way more potentials that need to be sorted through. My favourite one is one I took 6 nights ago. It was the 26th so the Christmas madness was mostly over. I took the night bus into the city and went traipsing through Anacostia Park which was still all lit up with twinkly lights. Like some cheesy fucking movie it even started to snow, just a light dusting but it was pretty enough to touch even my acerbic heart. 

I’d found a spider web hanging from a tree and I’d taken a picture that had the warm twinkling lights in the background and perfectly highlighted the fresh snowflakes that clung icily to the gossamer thin silk strands. It was beautiful and my photo can’t really even do it justice but it still represents that memory and so it is my favourite from the batch.

I kill another hour going through the pics all the while keeping an ear out, waiting for my mom to drag herself to bed. Because that is when my real life begins!

  
_Finally_ at 10:30 she heaves her ass into her room. As soon as I hear her door close I’m in motion. I hide my camera again and pull several extra pillows out of my closet, stuffing them beneath my blankets in a vaguely Kate sized and shaped lump. The chances of either one of my parents coming in here to check on me are slim to none but it’s best to cover all my bases. Actually the chances of my father even _coming_ home tonight are probably even less than the chances of him giving enough of a shit to check on me, but there you are… I prefer it this way, I tell myself, even as a deep rooted grief chews at my insides. I shove it down forcefully, grab my jacket and sling my backpack over my shoulders. Then I climb carefully out my window and drop to the ground.

I make my way to the abandoned warehouse district. There’s an old office building there that’s mostly decrepit and probably needed to be torn down years ago for several building code violations, but this is the piss poorest part of the city so no one gives a shit.

I found the place about a year ago now and have been coming here whenever I needed solitude and silence and peace. And a place to get drunk. I make my way slowly up the stairs; the elevator hasn’t worked probably since elevators were invented, and then out onto the roof. I’ve made a little tarp tent up here, hidden from view of anyone who might chance a look up from down on the street. I have a little battery powered space heater, some blankets, and bags of chips. All the other supplies I need for a truly stellar night I keep in my backpack preferring to lug it back and forth with me over leaving it here and possibly having it stolen by some random bum who might stumble across my nest. Yea, it would suck to lose the heater and the blankets but not as much as it would suck to lose the booze and smokes. Shit’s too expensive and too difficult to filch for me to be careless with it!

I plop down in my makeshift tent and rifle through my backpack. I pull out a little bottle that on the outside is innocently labeled Midol but on the inside actually carries some heavy duty hallucinogen pain killers. I usually only use these when I receive a particularly bad beating from my mother because it takes the pain away. I need to use them sparingly because I can only swipe one of these from her stash every so often, otherwise she notices. If I run out I have to buy them from this seedy kid at school and he way overcharges. And in any case they make me feel super lethargic and depressed. Even more than usual, which is saying something. So obviously I prefer upper effect of alcohol to the downer effect of the pills because my life is already so very much a downer so why use drugs to make it even more so?! But the alcohol can tend to make me feel everything amplified including physical pain. Usually the euphoria that comes with it more than balances out that pain but sometimes it’s just too bad which is when the painkillers come in. 

I take internal inventory, determining if the throbbing bruise under my right eye is bad enough to warrant one of the little light pink squares but then I decide against it. Getting these is just too difficult and as I provingly shake the bottle, the sparse rattling from inside it tells me I’m already low in my supply so I should save what’s left for the next really bad time. Like that time before Thanksgiving… I shudder as the memories surge.

I pull my thermos out of my backpack, dislodging it from where it’s wedged under my Bio textbook, laughing internally as I remember the chapter we’d covered in class a month ago: alcoholism and how it negatively impacts the human body. How about this chapter, Mr. Boyd? Abusive mothers and how they negatively impact the human psyche and how alcohol can help you forget your miserable existence!? Much more educational. 

I unscrew the lid and take a deep swallow, feeling the liquid fire scorch its way down my windpipe. The combination of the different booze as always tastes disgusting but I can feel it taking effect almost immediately. The stars get brighter and more twinkly, winking cheerfully down at me. The freezing night air doesn’t feel cold at all anymore. My head clears and becomes foggy all at the same time. My eye pulses in time with my heartbeat and I know that it hurts but it weirdly doesn’t feel painful.

Yes, this is what I’m talking about. As I keep chugging what basically tastes like pure gasoline, my mother’s yelling and abuse from earlier lifts off me, taking flight into the darkness. Good Kate and Bad Kate shut up their incessant bickering to lapse into a state of booze lulled slumber. My head is finally quiet. This is how I forget. This is how I cope with the shitty lot of cards I’ve been dealt. And maybe it’s how I simultaneously reward and punish myself for whatever it was I did in a previous life or the early years of this one to warrant all of this…

I sit enjoying the floaty feelings for a while. Another perk of being drunk for me is that it makes time inconsequential. Often I find myself sitting unmoving for the whole night and when I’ve sobered up (as much as I ever sober up, let’s be real here) I look back on the night and it seems like it both lasted forever in the best possible way, and was over in a flash. I never get bored when I’m drunk but I never feel like I run out of time either. 

Eventually I grab a bag of Cheetos and move to the edge of the roof. I sink down on the ledge dangling my feet into the ten story abyss. I like doing this; like flirting with the very edge of danger because I generally don’t care about what happened to me. I don’t actively want to die but I also don’t really care if I do either. I mean it’s not as if anyone will miss me or as if I’ll miss anything. I like being reckless. It livens things up, especially since at school in mostly seen as the quiet homebody who’s dumb as bricks. I’m not. Dumb, I mean. I am quiet and I keep to myself. I have no real friends. But I’m not stupid. I just don’t care. Now I’m no Einstein/Steve Jobs/brilliant bright future individual filled with _potential_ either. But I have no problem grasping mathematic concepts, or chemical formulas, or physics equation, or the convoluted grammar rules of the English language either. I don’t get it right off the bat but if I apply myself and study I’ll usually understand it within a week. _But_ _I just_ _don’t care!_ All that matters to me is that I make decent passing grades so that I can graduate high school and then get the hell out of dodge. I can’t pay for college and there’s no way my parents would fund me. I’d never qualify for student loans because my father make decent bank so technically I should be able to afford it. The fact that they’ve basically written me off as their daughter and demoted me to the rank of servant isn’t going to matter to some college review board. Of course there’s always scholarships and shit but to be honest the idea of post secondary education has never appealed to me. I’d rather do something else. Learn a trade or something. Make my living as a world famous photographer. That would be ideal.

But I’m realistic and know that that likely won’t happen. I’ll probably get stuck in a nowhere job in Podunk, New Jersey working day and night and twelve jobs as a waitress at thirteen different diners. Or else I’ll wind up as a hooker. That’s even less appetizing. But in the end I don’t care. Anywhere is better than here; anything is better than this!

If only it was June and time for graduation already. _Six more months, Kate. Half a year. You can do it. You can hack that. You’ve managed almost 12 years now. Get your shit together!_

The high from the alcohol is already starting to wear off; its last act of spectacular defiance being to amplify my default melancholy mood. This has been happening more and more and faster and faster as of late indicating that I’m getting more and more dependent on this shit. I know it should bug me, even scare me but it doesn’t. I’m just ambivalent. As I am about everything when I’m not drunk. And when I _am_ drunk then it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters then except the feeling of being drunk.

My thermos is empty and I’m just debating the pros and cons of buying another bottle of something at the 24 hour liquor store I’ll pass on my way home and am mentally calculating if I can afford it since I’m also low on painkillers, when something down below on the street catches my eye.

It’s a guy dressed completely in black like a ninja or a living shadow, detaching himself from the darkness of the night cast by the dilapidated hotel opposite my building. My head tilts to the side as I watch him. Usually this part of town is completely deserted at night. It’s almost worth a headline when a car passes through. Any people are practically unheard of at this time. 

Shadow man walks out into the middle of the road facing the corner where the street bends. He raises his arm straight out in front of him as if he’s pointing to ships in the distance. And then he just stands there. Waiting. For what?

I hear it before I see it; the low rumbling of a car approaching, bumping over the uneven pavement and potholes. The guy below me does not move even though the coming car is on course to run him over. 

The car rounds the corner; a large black SUV. No headlights. An Escalade, I think. It doesn’t slow. Can they not see him? 

As my panicked gaze swivels back and forth between Shadow Man and the large motorized vehicle bearing down on him I realize that no, in fact, they probably can’t. He's dressed all in black, as I’ve mentioned before. The key reason I can see him is because of the brokenly flickering light of the old hotel next door that proclaims the place to be the HO EL SCORI A. The Hotel Ascordia… The flickering neon lights only let me catch glimpses of him and surely the driver of the oncoming car isn’t expecting a random ninja to just show up in an abandoned part of town so he probably isn’t paying close enough attention.

I’m just wondering if I should shout a warning to shadow guy even though he’s clearly facing the approaching car, when a bright flare illuminates the street. A trail of light and fire shoots from Shadow Man’s outstretched arm heading straight for the car. 

A sharp squealing of breaks rips through the silence as the driver tries to avoid the oncoming missile but it’s too late. The entire car explodes into a roaring fireball that rises like an untethered hot air balloon into the night sky.

I don’t even scream. I can’t. I’m too in shock as the noise from the explosion vibrates my eardrums violently and I grip the ledge so I don’t go tumbling backwards off the roof as the shockwave blasts over me.

Oh, holy shit! That guy just blew the entire car away! I must be hallucinating this! Tell me I am hallucinating this! That is the last time I drink! Seriously! The last time! It’s making me go mad, because clearly this can’t actually be happening! My life is not a fucking James Bond movie!

I sit frozen like a great dumb bird up there on the edge of the roof, staring downwards. The remains of what once upon a time used to be a black Escalade still smolder gently in the middle of the street, though the bright light of that humongous fireball is still burned onto my retinas. The guy still stands in the center of the road, arm outstretched, completely unbothered by the fact that an entire car just went ka-blooey in front of him. That _he made_ it go ka-blooey. 

A second car rounds the corner. I watch in slow motion as Shadow Man’s outstretched arm hammers back into his broad barrel chest as he fires his weapon again. I scream as I watch the burning flare rocket towards the second Escalade. Next second my hand flies up to cover my mouth but it’s too late.

Shadow Man’s face turns towards me. I’m too far up and it’s too dark so I can’t make out his features but his face is pointed directly at me. I sit frozen my entire body feeling like it’s encased in ice. What if he fires another one of those things? At me? I don’t want to die. At least not in a fiery explosion of death! I know I’ve been very lax and uncaring with my body and general health but I don’t want to go out like this. I swear I’ll do better, God. I’ll lay off the alcohol, I’ll stop stealing from my parents, focus on school. Just don’t let him blow me up. Please!

He lowers his arm. I feel a momentary relief; maybe he didn’t see me. But then he starts walking towards the building I’m perched on. Seeing him approaching, his face still fixed on me sends me into motion. I spring to my feet and hurtle towards the entrance to the roof. I sprint down several flights of stairs feeling the electric fear thrumming through me.

I’m not dumb enough to try to get out of the building. He’s probably waiting for me down by the front door. Or else he’s coming up the stairs and my wild flight down will send me directly into his murderous arms.

I cut a left three floors down where I know there to be a gigantic room filled with individual desks and cubicles. I chose one at random in the middle of the floor and dive beneath it. There I curl up tightly pushing my face into my knees and covering my head with my arms. 

I listen. There is only silence. Silence and my own wheezing breaths. I’m completely out of shape, even running down half a flight of stairs has winded me. Curse the booze and smoking! I focus all my energy on trying to slow my breathing and calm my racing heart. He won’t find me here. He won’t!

The door opens. My head comes up automatically though by some miracle I manage to stop myself from screaming. I press both my hands over my mouth trying to lock in not only the screams but also the heavy panting that will give me away in a second. My heart beats loudly in my ears.

I can hear his slow footsteps walking through the room and imagine him stopping at each desk, stooping to check beneath it.

Suddenly my bright idea of picking a random desk in the middle doesn’t seem so bright at all. I should have chosen one in the back. It would have taken him longer to reach it and I’d have more time to think. 

Think! _Think!_ I need a weapon. Something to hit him with, to throw at him, distract him, ward him off. I strain my ears trying to determine just from hearing, where he is. I’m not entirely sure but I think he’s still a ways away. I peek cautiously out from below the desk. The room is absolutely trashed. There must be something here that I can use as a weapon. A stapler, a large dictionary, something…

My eyes land on a long, reasonably thick piece of wood. I don’t know what it used to be, maybe a table leg. It lies about three cubicles away from me. I try to remember frantically if the walls separating the cubicles are high enough to hide someone crawling along the floor. And then I try to think whether Shadow Man, who is obviously taller than I am, would be able to see over the walls better than my short ass could.

And then I hear him again. He’s closer. Much closer. To close for comfort one might say, and I realize that I don’t have a choice. I can either stay here like a sitting duck and wait for him to drag me kicking and screaming out from under this desk, or I can try to take a stand. Maybe I’ll distract him enough to let me get away. 

Dimly I realize that the possibilities of this are pretty slim but I won’t be a victim to him too! I’ve spent my whole life being a victim to my mom, I won’t be one here as well! No!

Slowly I start to crawl forwards. I don’t turn and look over my shoulder even though I dearly want to. It’ll make no difference. If he sees me I’m about to find out, and if I look and see that he’s closer than I anticipated I’m more likely to give myself away out of sheer dumbassery. 

I make it one desk further and dive beneath it. A reprieve! I start to crawl again, making it to the second desk. There I take a few moments to try to catch my breath as silently as possible while also focusing on trying to determine where in the room he is. 

He moves with eerie silence. A man of shadows all around.

The piece of wood is now less than a meter away, almost within my grasp.

I take as deep a breath as I can take while not making a noise, and then inch my way out until I can grab my weapon and, clutching it tightly, I retreat back under the desk.

I wait. My heart is pounding in my throat and my muscles feel like jelly. Cold sweat is beaded on my brow, dripping into my eyes. This feels like that one time I took too many of those painkillers and mixed them with alcohol because I’m just that smart, and overdosed, waking up twelve hours later on the bathroom floor. It felt exactly like this before I passed out. But I can’t pass out now. I can’t!

I grip the wood tighter, curling my legs up beneath me, getting ready to spring. 

His shoes come into my line of sight. They’re black and heavy looking boots, yet still look like they allow him lots of movement without weighing him down, _and_ like they could kick the shit out of me.

I tense, every muscle in my body wanting to explode forward. Not yet. _Not. Yet!_ If I want to get anywhere with this completely idiotic attack then I need to take him completely by surprise and wait for the right moment. Not yet!

His face comes into view. In the split second before I explode into motion I realize why I couldn’t see his features up on the roof earlier. Because his face is completely covered. The lower half of it sports some kind of black muzzle mask that covers him from his chin up over his nose. His eyes are hidden behind black goggles. Night vision? Probably.

I barely dwell on this realization for the barest sliver of a moment, then I’m in motion screaming like a crazed banshee, swinging the table leg turned club at his face.

His arm sweeps up with a lazy sense of practice and predetermination to block my strike. As it moves through the air I see it in slow motion, my panic sped up brain reacting to the fear overload by slowing everything down. It catches a glint of silver from the only working streetlight on the block which happens to be right in front of this window. I realize with a jolt of purest terror that his left arm is made entirely out of metal. At first I think that it can’t be, it’s some reflective night wear camouflage material on his jacket but then I see the frayed edges on his shirt. The left sleeve has been ripped clean off to display the frightening fact that his arm is indeed completely made of metal from the shoulder down to the fingers.

My makeshift weapon impacts with his metal wrists and shatters into splinters. The force shudders up my arm vibrating my whole body. 

I seem to have surprised him though because he makes no further move towards me.

I spin around and start to sprint up the aisle between the cubicles, weaving between several tipped over desks and chairs.

I don’t hear any movement of pursuit behind me.

Suddenly he drops down, seemingly from the fucking ceiling, to land directly of me. I shriek in terror and attempt to turn the other way but my momentum carries me forwards directly into his waiting arms.

One hand catches me by the front of my jacket and lifts me bodily off the ground.

I scream in terror clawing at his face with my hands and kicking out wildly at him.

He turns and in one fluid motion slams me down on my back on top of the closest desk. His metal fingers close in an unforgiving grip around my throat, very effectively cutting off my piercing shrieks.

He glowers down at me; or at least I think he does because I still can’t see his eyes. His fingers flex, ice cold against my skin. He’s standing right between my spread thighs, leaning over me and I’m completely at his mercy. He can do whatever he wants. I thought he wanted to kill me, and I still think he will but with the way he’s staring at me now I get the horrifying impression that another idea has just occurred to him.

I start to writhe and thrash wildly in his hold but his fingers tighten until self preservation makes me go limp. 

Tears rise in my eyes and spill over with startling speed. The salt stings the wound under my eye. 

His other hand comes up to my face. I cringe away as much as I can being basically nailed down by his hips and metal arm.

“Please…” I croak not even sure what I’m begging him for. To let me go? To kill me quickly? To not fucking rape me? I don’t know.

His finger lands on my cheek with surprising gentleness, but still I flinch violently. It slowly traces the area under my right eye, right where the bruise from earlier today discolors my skin.

I wince, expecting him at any second to do something, bash me in the face, throw me across the room, tear my shirt off, I don’t know. But what happens is so unexpected that I can’t even move.

He lets me go. His cold fingers open, releasing my neck, and he steps away from me. 

I stay lying frozen on the table staring at him with huge eyes. I don’t dare move, afraid that any tiny motion of mine might set him off again.

He takes another step back, that face behind the terrifying mask still turned resolutely towards me. His metal fist flexes at his side.

“Go.” The single word is spoken in a rasping, growling voice so quiet that I can’t be sure I heard him right. I blink at him, like a rabbit in the sights of a fox. I’m afraid that as soon as I move he’ll pounce.

“Go!” he says again, louder and more insistent than before. His non metal hand points to the door.

He’s letting me go. Why? Is it a trick? A trap? Is he toying with me? Does he just want the thrill of a game; a chase? 

I carefully clamber off the desk. My entire body is shaking like a leaf as I cautiously inch away from him backwards too scared to turn my back on him and let him out of my sight.

“ _GO!_ ” He shouts it this time and raises his metal arm as if to backhand me across the face. I shriek in terror and spin on the spot, taking off. I weave through the desks, smashing my knees and shins and hips against various debris. I run helter-skelter down the stairs, bouncing off several walls as I go. All the while I expect him to drop down in front of me again and grab me just like he did before. I try desperately to listen for any sounds of pursuit from behind me but I can’t hear anything over my own slapping footsteps and the pounding of my blood in my ears. 

I burst through the front door of the hotel and skid to a stop. Several police cars are down the road in the place where the two cars are now only two charred smudges on the pavement. Their red and blue flashers rotate merrily, casting the entire usually dark street in almost festive looking lights.

I stand and stare for a few endless, breathless moments before my brain kickstarts reminding me that I have several, albeit empty, bottles of alcohol in my backpack, and I am also underagedly drunk, and as such it would not do well to be caught by the cops right now. Even if I could tell them who it was that obliterated two gigantic town cars. Like they’d believe me anyway. _It_ _was the Shadow Man. He was straight out of the fucking Matrix. He had a metal arm. And now he’s disappeared! Yes officer, I know I’m drunk as a skunk, but I swear I wasn’t hallucinating. It’s all real!_

Sure. That’d fly. Uh-huh!

Thankfully no one has noticed my explosive exit from the building and so I’m able to paste myself against the wall and creep along the shadows like a cat burglar. Once I’m out of reach of the siren lights I quickly scurry across the street. There in the shadowed alley between two buildings I turn back around to look at the opposite side of the road. My eyes travel over the scene, over the dozens of cops that crawl like ants among the sparse yet still smoldering remains of the two Escalades. Inexorably my gaze is drawn upwards towards the roof where I’d perched and watched in a fucking front row seat as it all went down.

And there he is. Seemingly uncaring that he’s in full view for all to see if they’d only look up. Standing tall, silhouetted with the moonlight behind him. The probably only undamaged, un-fucked-up part of my brain that thinks solely in terms of photography inanely thinks that this would be a killer shot! The breeze is ruffling that shoulder length hair of his and he stands like a rock watching the outcome of the destruction and chaos he caused. Something strikes me as off though and I squint. 

Suddenly a searchlight illuminates the scene in front of me like a fucking stage light. I duck back into the shadows to avoid being picked up by its beam. By the time it’s passed over my hiding spot and I feel safe enough to peek back around the corner, he’s gone. Vanished as if the very ground had swallowed him up. Fucking _poof_!

I gulp, suddenly reasonably, unreasonably afraid that he’s once again after me.

I decide I’d better make myself scarce before any cops or other shadowy assassins find my ass.

I make my way home sticking to the darkened walls the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to point this out numerous times during the proceedings of this story. My OC is still in high school. She is over 18. (It gets explained why later on) if you've looked at the tags you'll see that she winds up in a relationship with Bucky. AT NO POINT WILL SHE BE UNDERAGE OR STILL IN HIGH SCHOOL WHEN THIS OR ANYTHING SMUTTY HAPPENS. I DO NOT CONDONE MINORS IN RELATIONSHIPS WITH ADULTS! I know Bucky is like almost a hundred so it'll be an age difference either way but it'll be a muuuch smaller age difference than my Loki story so heyyy! Also I've always had this notion that Bucky when he was taken by Hydra was like 26 or something. I've only recently found out that he was actually closer to 36. But for this story I'm going to be following my previous thought process and de-aging him by like 10ish years. Because it be my story! Thank ye very much! Arrr! ☠  
> Ok, but one more time: no underage relationship with an adult will happen here!  
> Okay. That's that, and it willingly be repeated a bunch more times.  
> I hope you enjoyed this start. A nice long chapter.  
> Feedback is welcome and appreciated. See you soons!  
> ❤❤❤


	2. Not His Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in that sweet spot of me having large portions of the story done, meaning I can post a lot, and quickly. Plus I'm really motivated right now. There's not too much Bucky/Winter Soldier in the first few chapters but his presence increases A LOT as the story progresses. Promise! I know that's what we're all here for  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: talk of abuse, fear, depression, underage drinking, memories of death, and fear for life.  
> Hope you like.

  
The next day I have to go to school with one of my mom’s scarves wrapped around my neck. I have dark purple bruises in the shapes of fingerprints on the sides of my throat. 

Thankfully the scarf I managed to pilfer actually somewhat matches my shirt so it looks intentional enough and I don’t get any questions from teachers. It’s hard enough hiding and explaining away the bruises my mom leaves. Imagining this conversation doesn’t go down well in my head either. “Oh no ma’am, as I’ve told you every single time you’ve asked me this, there is nothing going on in my home. These bruises? No of course that wasn’t my parents. It was some freaky shadow man phantom-esque mother fucker who blew up half a street and then tried to kill me for witnessing his crime when all I wanted to do was get underage drunk in peace and forget about the times my mom _did_ hit me. But other than that, yea everything is peachy in my life, thanks for asking.” That’s a one way ticket to juvie, rehab, or the nuthouse if I’ve ever heard one.

In the light of day the events form last night seem even more unbelievable. I’m starting to think that I did hallucinate them all, and that the bruises on my neck were in fact from some hobo that tried to take my booze or cash from me. 

But I know its true; I _know_ it. As unbelievable as it sounds. I even go to the library to prove it to myself and almost give Mrs. Clarke, the ancient librarian a heart attack. She hasn’t seen me in here since the first day of eighth grade when I was still a starry eyed, assfaced freshman, bamboozled by the idea that high school was gonna change everything and would turn out be _thebestyearsofmylife,_ as movies, TV shows, and those dumb pre-teen novels always promised. Hah! This trip was almost worth it just to see the expression on her face.

I use one of the computers to dig through the daily news. And there it is, black on white. Front page. Apparently the poor saps in the car were bigwig foreign dignitaries. Two important hound dogs plus one assistant and one driver apiece. Also one woman who was; shocker(!) not bigwig number two’s wife. All dead. Incinerated. Exploded. Turned to dust. So dusty that apparently they’ll have to use dental records to identify the unknown woman. And I saw it happen…

I sit back, staring at the screen, my pulse pounding beneath my suddenly clammy skin. So it really did happen. Beyond a doubt. Shadow Man killed seven people without batting an eye; just fucking disintegrated them, but he let me go. _Why?_

Did he think I wasn’t a threat? That I wasn’t gonna go to the authorities? He was right, obviously, but he had no way of knowing that. So wouldn’t it be easier to just get rid of me too, since clearly his conscience about killing innocents wasn’t plaguing him all that much. Maybe because I didn’t see his face so he thought I wouldn’t be able to identify him… Which is true, but I did get a very close up look (and feel) of his metal arm which seems like quite an identifying factor and pretty hard to hide. I mean there can’t be that many metal armed badasses running around Washington DC, can there?!

I sense Mrs. Clarke prowling around behind me and so I quickly get rid off the open tab so she doesn’t see what I was googling. Then because she’s pissing me off by breathing down _my_ delinquent neck when there’s like five kids that I can see right now who are _actually_ breaking rules, I reach out and shut off the computer without powering down first. She nearly has a stroke when she sees me do this. She sputters something about how it’ll take all day to get the ancient clunker started up again but I don’t even pretend to listen. I flounce out the door, smacking one kid’s sandwich out of his hand and sending mayo spattering all over his shoes and the floor. No food allowed in the library, man!

The rest of the school day passes in a blur. By blur I don’t mean it passes so fast that time blurs; it feels literally blurry! I can’t make out anything, not my teachers getting increasingly irate with me, and yelling at me, not the principal when I eventually get sent to his office during Spanish, not the bells, or the boards, or anything else. I’m too lost in my somersaulting thoughts.

I saw seven people die last night. I saw someone _kill_ seven people. _On purpose!_ I thought he always going to kill _me_ too. But he didn’t. He let me go. _Why?_ That why is the main thing that plagues me. Clearly he’s not loath to kill and obviously he has no issue with killing innocents. I mean those foreign politicos might have been douchebags, I don’t know, and maybe they even deserved to get flame broiled, again I dunno, but I’m pretty sure their assistants didn’t. And even if they were in on whatever nefarious plots their bosses may or may not have been embezzling, I’m sure the drivers weren’t. And certainly not the hooker—escort. She was which a rich bastard which makes her something better. Something fancier; an escort!

But either way she was just as innocent as me, probably even more so because I had _seen_ him. And yet he'd spared me and not her.

And the way he touched my face; that bruise. What had that meant? Is that why he’d let me go? Because before I was sure that he was gonna choke the life out of me. But then he got a good look at my face and he didn’t… why not? Why would it be any skin of his back whether I got beaten up by someone before I got murdered by him? Did he want the sole honor of beating me to a pulp? Did he think that maybe I didn’t see anything after all because one of my eyes was half swollen shut? It makes no sense!

I’m drawn out of my internal musing monologues when my art teacher, Mr. Burnett, plunks his ass into the seat next to me. “Earth to Katie!” he cups both his hands around his mouth and leans forward to speak directly in my ear. It does the trick, pulling me back to the real world with a _thunk._

I mock glare at him. He’s the only teacher in this hell hole who I can actually stand. And not just because of the subject that he teaches which gives him a certain head start over all the other cretins, in my book. He’s genuine. He’s funny. He actually gives a shit about his students and not just in a superficial way. He’s just so completely un-teacher-like that you can’t help but like the guy. He goes on long tirades about whatever is bugging him, be it certain politicians and their fuck ups, or the fact that the store was out of grape jelly for his daily PB&J. He’s not afraid to swear in front of us K.I.D.Zs. He treats us like human beings. And he drives the most awesome 1948 Chevy Fleetline. Plus he’s a kick ass artist who’s not afraid to paint _real_ things. His work all has feeling. No perfectly proportioned landscapes and butterfly fields for him. His paintings are raw; explosions of color, shapes, and feelings, paint splattered onto the canvas, punched on with the brush. It’s not uncommon to walk into the classroom and see him wielding a gigantic butcher knife, scraping the paint onto whatever surface struck his fancy today. He lets students talk in class, eat in class, listen to music in class. He teaches us about artists from all over the world, all different time periods, backgrounds, sexes, races, classes, ethnicities. At the beginning of every year he makes a huge ceremonial show of burning, shredding, or otherwise irreversibly mutilating a copy of the official curriculum. He refuses to teach us the prescribed bullshit lectures that states that good art was only ever historically created by old, dead, white men. He gives students rides to and from school and when classes are done he can often be seen chain smoking with the older kids just off the school grounds so it’s technically not an infraction of the rules. He’s easily the most popular teacher in the school. The board has long since given up trying to keep him in line. There’d be riots in the streets if they ever fired him.

He also sees right through my, as he so delicately calls it, horseshit. He knows what my mom does to me but he’s as powerless as me to stop it. I’d made him see my point, which is where the hell would I go?! If CPS comes for my mom I’ll get taken away and stuffed into foster care. Who fosters a 16 or 17 year old, let alone one who’s already a problem child with a record? No one. No one with any good hearted honorable intentions at least. Someone in it for the money, or other even less honorable reasons. No, even at this point I’m better off sticking it out until I’ve graduated and then getting the hell out of dodge to do… whatever. I don’t know, I haven’t decided that part yet. But at least I know just what to expect in my present living situation…

He grudgingly saw my point though he reminds me numerous times a week that he doesn’t like it. He’s also offered to let me camp out on his couch should I ever need to. I haven’t taken him up on that offer though, though I dearly want to. I do not want to get him into any kind of trouble should anyone discover that he has a female student spending nights at his apartment. I know he wouldn’t do anything to me, know that his offer is as true as his word, but I know how it would look. And I don’t want that for him.

He has an uncanny ability to see right through me even just looking with one eye squinted. And now I have the laser focus of both of his eyes trained directly on me.

Uh-oh!

“What’s up, Mate?” 

He has a habit of always calling me words that rhyme with it but only very rarely using my actual name. Only when there’s some serious emotion invested in whatever he’s saying to me.

I shrug. “Nuthin'"

His sardonically raised eyebrow calls my bluff. “Nuthin' huh? What’s with the scarf, Late? Gucci? You’re not usually such a fashion Plate.” He chuckles at his own joking play on words.

I reach up and adjust the scarf. “I was cold.”

Again his eyebrow tells me that he smells BS. “You’re distracted.”

“I am not!”

“Really? Have you by any chance noticed that the entire classroom is empty?”

I look around. It is. Everyone’s gone. Where the fuck did they all go? Is the day over? A quick glance at the clock behind his head shows me that it is not; that there’s still a bit less than an hour to go. “Of course I noticed.” I say even though it’s so clearly a lie. 

He rolls his eyes at me. “Sure, shark Bait. Wanna tell me what’s really going on? Sans ridiculous fibbing?”

“Nothing is going on!” I repeat, not even believing it myself.

Mr. B. leans back, studying my face with that look that I call his X-ray vision. I look down, knowing that that look can pretty much see through any walls I build up.

Too late.

“That’s a new bruise.”

I grit my teeth and keep looking down. I’d hidden it with makeup, but evidently not well enough to fool Cyclops over here.

“Kate?”

“I ran into a door, okay?!”

He sighs. “Sure. But it seems like the doors in your house are becoming increasingly more violent.”

I grind my teeth so hard they squeak against each other. My head is still bowed.

“Kate?” he leans forward, trying to capture my gaze. Knowing that he won’t relent until I look at him I glance up. _“Is_ it getting worse?”

I think about it for a second. Then I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I just pissed her off worse than usual.”

“How?” 

I smile wryly and without humor. “I went to school. She got used to having me home all day to boss around over the Christmas holiday so now that I’m once again missing for six and a half hours each day, well let’s just say it didn’t go over well with her.” 

And that’s the truth. Mostly…

Mr. B. sighs heavily and sits back. “She should be in jail.”

“Noted!” I say sarcastically. He’s voiced his point of view on this issue many times before. 

He shoots me a look that’s deeply disapproving. He’s the only one who can get me to feel anything other than contempt with a look like that. “I’m sorry.” I mumble, hating that I keep disappointing him.

“Stop apologizing for shit that’s not your fault, Katie."

He’s also the only one allowed to call me Katie without getting thumped.

“I just wanna make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m safe.” It’s a lie and we both know it. I watch his jaw clench for a moment then he visibly forces himself to relax. 

“You wanna show me your bounty form the past few weeks? You’re bound to have taken some killer shots!”

I nod, relieved at the change in topic and dig the roll of undeveloped film out of my bag. He accepts it with a wink and then leads the way into the darkroom, me following behind, feeling just a titch more alive than I did all day.

  
That night I go back. I have no idea what has possessed me to even make me consider it, but I go back. I tell myself that it’s because I need to retrieve my backpack and its precious cargo which I was forced to abandon atop the roof in my wild flight yesterday. But really it’s a strange sense of absolutely foolhardy idiocy and curiosity about _him_ that drives me back. 

I’m careful, in case there’s a lingering cop infestation but the street is as deserted as always. The only difference is the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the icy mid winter breeze, and the two charcoal black spots burned eternally into the pavement. 

I seem to have taken complete leave of my senses because I actually walk out in the middle of the street and stand in the same spot I remember him standing in yesterday. I turn to face the corner and raise my arm the way he did, pointing an imaginary grenade launcher at the imaginary oncoming traffic. 

How would it feel? Holding that much destructive power and wielding it. Knowing you could kill with the push of a button, the pull of a trigger. Actually doing it? Did he feel anything? Anticipation? Dread? Was he angry? Did the people in the car do anything to him? Was he maybe a displaced refugee of their country out for revenge because his family had starved to death under their totalitarian regime or died in the crossing to America? Or was he a jilted lover and actually had it out for the woman in the car? I have no clue.

My arm drops and my head swivels to the side, tipping back as I look towards the spot on the roof where I perched and watched the entire show go down. It’s pitch black up there, basically confirming that Shadow Man’s goggles were in fact night vision. Otherwise he couldn’t possibly have seen me even if he heard me.

I think back to when I saw him standing up there and my mind catches again on that something I noticed was off yesterday. Something. But what?

It strikes me then, as my imagination paints him up there, tall, stoic, unyielding. Like a statue. There was no emotion in his stance. No swagger or pride in a raised head or a thrown out chest. No fear of discovery by the police in hunched shoulders or shrinking from the search lights. No sense of guilt or regret at what he’d done in a bowed head, or bent back. There was just… nothing. No feeling. He was just surveying the scene, taking in his surroundings methodically, mechanically, automatically. Like a robot; a machine. Like he’d been programmed…

How could he not have felt _anything?_

I shake my head to clear the millions of questions buzzing through it. I’ll likely never get answers to them so there’s no point in dwelling on them. The news said that there were no suspects and no clues. There were no cameras in this part of the city, and no witnesses. Well, none that they knew of and I’m not likely to come forward!

I head over to my building and climb the stairs. A full body shiver courses through me as I pass the seventh floor office room. I’ll likely have to find a new abandoned house on whose roof to keep my hideout. I think this one has been spoiled for me.

I make it to the roof and head straight for my tarp tent. My heater is there, as is my blanket. The half finished monster bag of Cheetos lies beside it, spilling poison-orange cheese curls over the roof.

But my backpack is gone. Marvelous!

Gone with it are my Biology textbook, my bus pass, my wallet, my phone, a bottle each of vodka and jack, and my very valuable stash of pilfered painkillers. 

Shit motherfucking _dammit!_

Stupid Shadow Man!

I bury my face in my hands, pushing the heels of my palms deep into my eyes. What am I gonna do? The cost of the things I lost tallies up in my brain increasing my dismay exponentially. Even if I discount the alcohol which I _want_ but do not really _need,_ I’ll still have to pay to replace the bus pass, the phone, and the fecking textbook. At least 300 bucks. I don’t have that kind of spare change lying around. 

Shit, shit, _shit!_ What am I gonna do?

Tears burn my eyes as I lift my face out of my hands…

…and jerk back with a strangled yell. 

He’s here. Right in front of me. Soundlessly appeared out of fucking nowhere or as if he’s been standing there the whole entire time.

Before I can even consider running again his hand reaches out lightning quick and plants itself in the center of my chest. He gives a shove that pushes me backwards to be pinned against the wall of the little room where the staircase exits onto the roof. 

My hands automatically come up to clutch at his black sleeve. He’s not using his metal hand to restrain me today and he’s also not hurting me with his hold. But it’s strong and unforgiving and I can tell that I will have zero chance of squirming out of it.

My heartbeat roars in my ears as a cold sweat bathes my body. Why did I come back? Why was I stupid enough to come back? What the hell is wrong with me?

My breathing has sped up to the point where I’m getting lightheaded from the shallow gasps. I want to close my eyes but I can’t, absolutely petrified in his stare which I still can’t actually see.

“Why did you come back?” His raspy voice is muffled by the mask he wears but I can understand him clearly.

I only whimper piteously, too scared to even attempt to find my voice even as my mind screams the exact same question at me. _Why the hell did you come back, dumbass?!_

His hand on my chest pushes down harder, feeling strong enough to crush my ribcage should he so desire it. Obviously he wants me to answer and doesn’t have the patience to ask again.

“I forgot my backpack.” I manage to squeak out my pathetic reason.

Some of the pressure lifts off my chest. “This backpack?”

I look down to see that he is, in fact, hefting my backpack in his metal hand. I swallow hard then nod repeatedly.

He drops it to the floor with a loud _clunk._ That’ll be the vodka… hope the bottle doesn’t break and soak my textbook and phone. That’d be _so_ wonderfully ironic, and _just_ my luck.

His metal hand approaches my face. I cringe back into the rough plaster wall behind me, trying to avoid his reaching fingers, afraid of what he means to do with them. He easily captures my chin and holds me in place. He starts tilting my head side to side, leaning closer. I can hear his breath blowing out with quiet whistles through the slits in the mask right over where his mouth is. It blows warm over my face.

“What are you doing?” I whine, scared out of my wits. 

“Quiet!” He growls.

Yes sir!

I’m about to pee my pants. What does he want from me?

“Don’t move!” he instructs in that gravelly voice. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to or it would help me in any way. I do manage to squeeze my eyes shut.

His cold fingers very carefully and surprisingly gently again trace yesterday’s yellowing bruise under my eye, then probe the new lump on my jaw that I received today when she caught me sneaking a few bites of her dinner.

I screw my face up tight even though it hurts the various sore spots on it, awaiting new pain to come at any second. Why did I come here again? I was lucky enough to get away alive yesterday. Why would I have thought I’d be that lucky again?! 

I soft high pitched keening noise squeezes out between my tightly compressed lips and clenched teeth. He pokes the bruise on my jaw a bit too hard and I gasp in pain. His hand retracts itself from my face.

I tense, waiting… waiting… For what? Pain? Violation? Death? All three?

When nothing comes I carefully open one eye. He’s still right in my face, holding me trapped to the wall with his flesh hand.

“Why are you making that noise?” he asks, his head tilting to one side.

I blink, realising that I’m still quietly squealing like a stuck pig. “Because I’m scared!” I whisper with surprising candor.

He nods slowly. “You should be.”

My knees turn to mush. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “Are you going to kill me now?” I ask stupidly.

His chin jerks up slightly. “No.”

“Why not?” 

_Why not?! Why the hell would you ask him that, idiot?! You’re just gonna give him ideas._

“Because you’re not my mission.”

 _What?_ “Why didn’t you kill me last night?” _Shut up, Shut. Up, you stupid idiot!_ Why do I have to keep questioning him? Why can’t I just be fucking grateful for the fact that he apparently isn’t planning to kill me and didn’t last night either. What the hell is wrong with me?!

“Because you weren’t my mission.” He repeats, sounding impatient. 

“What was your mission?” _Stop asking him questions!_

“The two senators.” 

Why is he being honest with me? Why is he telling me these things? Who the hell is he?! “And what about the five other innocent people?” My voice rises shrilly in my panic. What am I doing?! Do I honestly think that if I keep asking him questions he’ll be distracted enough for me to slip away? No. The only way I’ll get out of this situation is if he lets me go. Again. Which even despite his words from earlier I can’t see happening.

“Casualties that couldn’t be helped.”

“And me? Why could I be helped?” _Goddammit. Shut. UP!_

“You were not in the line of fire.” 

He’s a man of few words. “Who are you?”

He doesn’t answer, instead turns his head to look out over the crumbling rooftops. “You should go.”

I’d love to, but you’re still pinning me to the wall over here, champ. “Are you really letting me go?” my voice shakes.

His head turns back to me. “You’re not my mission.” He says again.

“Why did you come back tonight?” 

He steps back away from me, then kicks my backpack over to settle against my still jellied legs. I pick it up slowly, not daring to make any sudden moves. I still can’t see his eyes but I can feel them on me burning and intense. 

Just as I think he’s not going to answer me again he says a single gruffly spoken, distorted word: “Cleanup.” 

“Okay,” I squeak. “Well, um… I’m gonna do what you said. I’m gonna go now…” I’m still not entirely sure that he’s actually letting me leave. I back up a step. When he doesn’t pounce on me I back up another and another.

Just as I reach the door his head swings back around. The angle he’s standing at has the lights from the malfunctioning hotel sign across the street reflecting off his goggles, making them flicker an eerie, demonic red. I freeze. “You should take care of your face.” He says in an even, emotionless voice.

My hand immediately flies up to my cheek. My face? Is that a threat? Is he about to bash my face in? Or is he referring to the bruises? Why is he so interested in those? “Yea…” I say carefully. “Maybe. Umm… bye.” 

He doesn’t reply, turning away from me again. I back out the door off the roof, and as soon as it slams behind me I go flying down the stairs again.

I stop to catch my breath in the same place as yesterday, between the two warehouses. And like yesterday he stands on the roof, a dark, solid sentry to the night, unmoving and emotionless. Unthinkingly I pull my phone out of my backpack and raise it. The click of the artificial shutter reverberates through my bones sounding like the crack of a gunshot in the still of the night. Without thinking I turn and sprint down the alley sure that he’s heard me and that he’s in hot pursuit wondering why the Ef I would be taking pictures of him if not to bring them to the cops. Which would be reason enough for him to kill me; make me his _mission._ Whatever that meant. 

But I make it home unharmed and manage to climb in through my window. I dump my backpack in my closet and collapse onto my bed. 

I am actually exhausted! For the first time in years I fall asleep before 2am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact, Mr B. Is directly based off of my own high school art teacher. I adored that man and I very much credit him with helping me keep my sanity by encouraging me to express myself through my art, as well as inspiring me to follow the art school career path I'm currently on. Rock on Mr. B!  
> Anyways, random facts that no one cares about aside; I hope you liked that. I'm posting long chapters because I really don't want to post one without Bucky in it, since he's already not in it very much at the moment. That will change for the better soon though, I swear.  
> Let me know if you wish, what you think so far. Is the Winter Soldier in character? I can't really tell, though I did my best.  
> Feedback is welcome as well as any potential questions or whatever comment you might have.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Guardian Assassin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of insight into Kate's past plus more Winter Soldier interactions.  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS for physical abuse, injury, mental abuse, and loss of a child. Its a dark chapter, at least for the first half or so.  
> Hope you like it anyway!

I sleep for a solid, uninterrupted eight hours. That is unheard of for me. It’s glorious. Of course it also means that I am not only late for second period, but that I’ve missed first period entirely. That’s less glorious.

Crap on a stick! 

I try to avoid being late at all costs even if I’m not particularly invested in the subjects. Too many latenesses warrant a phone call home which, predictably, for me, is very bad news. Not that my mom particularly cares about my academic performance, but she does care about her reputation and me being less than an exemplary student tarnishes that. Or so she thinks. I’d been held back in the second grade because things at home were spiralling so completely out of control and I had no idea how to deal with it. Let’s just say that the consequences of that news reaching my mother’s ears should never be repeated. But on the other hand she hasn’t asked to see my report card once in all my high school career, so I don’t know. It doesn’t make much sense, as does she. All I know and all that matters is that if the school calls home for any reason, be it my tardiness, errant behaviour, or a failing grade, I catch hell. And so I do my best to actively avoid all three with a passion.

Hopefully they won’t call home though because I actually haven’t been late once this year yet. But I also completely skipped first period so that might have eradicated any brownie points my punctuality aged to rack up last grading period.

Instead of going downstairs where she’s sure to hear me, I climb out the window. I make it to school in record time though when I use my bus pass it reminds me that not even 12 hours ago it was in the metal hand of a murderous assassin. 

My English teacher Mr. Smythe glares bloody murder at me as I slink into his 2nd period class 37.5 minutes late. I consider flipping him off but then decide against it. I’m probably already in enough doo-doo, no sense adding a visit to the principal’s office on top of that.

I flop down in my usual seat in the back corner and listlessly pull my copy of _Macbeth_ out of my bag. I actually quite like Shakespeare though I hate how we’re made to dissect every single fucking word the guy ever penned for secret symbolism and meaning. Maybe he just wrote shit because he wanted to. Maybe he didn’t plan to have English teachers nitpick him apart like cybertronic hens hundreds of years later. Also I read somewhere that he was gay. No one ever teachers that but I think it makes a lot of difference in how I personally interpret his plays. _The Taming of the Shrew_ , for instance… 

As I thumb randomly through the dog eared school issued book I land on the page where the ghost of Banquo returns to torment Macbeth. _‘Thou canst not say I did it; never shake/ Thy gory locks at me.’_ Inanely this quote and who it’s spoken to reminds me of the picture of Shadow Man I snapped yesterday. I’m still not entirely convinced that he’s not, in fact, a ghost, even though he seems all too solid especially his metal arm.

Carefully, so Mr. Smythe doesn’t see me, I pull my phone out of my bag. I prop my book up on my pencil case and tuck the phone between the covers to make it look like I’m intently following along as Mr. Smythe reads the book aloud in his droning, nasally voice.

My phone is off and it makes an obnoxious beeping noise as it powers on. I quickly look around with everyone else, pretending to search for the rule breaker. Mr. Smythe's fishy pale eyes are narrowed as he too hunts the classroom for the perpetrator. When he’s unable to find one he resorts to barking “Phones away!” then returns to the laments of Lady Macduff.

After sufficient time has passed to take responsibility off my shoulders I look back to my phone. I open the pictures library and click on the snapshot I captured yesterday.

It’s not what I expected. Shadow Man is clearly visible on the roof, standing in that indelible statuesque way. His goggled eyes even glow red with the reflected light from the sign. But what I wasn’t expecting is the added aesthetic effect that came from me spinning away when my phone made that shutter click noise. It’s blurred the picture artistically, making it look as if someone smeared their hand gracefully through a still wet oil painting, leaving streaks trailing through the subject. It actually looks really, really cool. Like I’d intentionally taken the picture like that as part of a project instead of just wanting a quick snap to convince myself that I wasn’t insane, that Shadow Man actually existed, and that he wasn’t a ghost or a vampire. I.e. that he would show up in a photograph since I didn’t have any mirrors handy yesterday.

Wow. I should almost get this printed to add to my portfolio that I keep at Mr. Burnett’s insistence even though there’s little I’ll be doing with it once I graduate. 

For the rest of the class my mind lingers on Shadow Man and my last interaction with him. Why was he back there? He said cleanup, but to clean up what? According to the papers he didn’t leave any trace behind. Was he convincing himself of that? He said he was on a mission so that means that he answers to someone who gives him orders, right? So he’s not a merc… But then what is he? And why does he keep letting me go? And why is he clearly a human being but he acts more like a robot? 

When the bell rings I drag myself through Biology class, again being reminded that my Bio textbook was in the hands of a mysterious assassin just hours before. When lunch rolls around I slouch into the art room where I spend most of my free time because Mr. B. doesn’t mind, and slump down at my desk, burying my face in the crook of my arm, hiding from the world.

“And a pleasant afternoon to you too, Hate!” Mr. B. calls from his workstation where I saw him when I came in, slathering paint onto a huge cinderblock that he must have freaking airlifted into the classroom through the window. 

Without lifting my head I raise one hand into a lazy thumbs up then flip it into a bird. I know he won’t take offence and am proven right when he chuckles.

Because he is awesome he leaves me alone until the bell rings. I turn my head to the side without lifting it off my folded arms to allow myself to look at him as he delivers his lecture, then when he sends us off to go foraging for inspiration, which for all of my hormone plagued classmates is basically code for go take sneaky pictures of the kids in the locker room, and the snoring, drooling teachers taking naps in the staff room, I rise with everyone else and head off to find things to photograph. 

As I walk though a hallway that’s entirely made up of lockers on the right side and windows on the left side, I see it. I’m looking down at the crappy school issued camera, clicking through the pictures that are saved on the roll, shaking my head at the dumbass who had it before me who seems to have made it his mission in life to photograph up every short skirt and down every low cut blouse in the whole school. Disgusting pervert. Good Kate pipes up urging us to take this matter to someone in charge. Bad Kate vehemently advocates for the course of action that leads us to finding out who signed this thing out last and then going and kicking him in the nuts. Repeatedly! 

As I’m rolling my eyes at their incessant bitching, I see it; a black streak from the corner of my eye. I swing around staring intently out the window. It’s gone now. There’s nothing even remotely black there. But for a split second it looked like… but no it couldn’t be. I’m imagining things because he’s been on my mind all day. It looked like the Shadow Man standing in that way he does up on the roof of the school’s C wing. But there’s nothing there. 

My heart beats wildly in my chest, sweat beading on my upper lip, as I consider the implications. If he’s actually here then why? To kill me after all? To spy on me? Is he following me to make sure I don’t go to the cops? Has he changed his mind and I am now part of his cleanup? Or am I his new mission?

I linger for several more seconds before I turn away and start walking again. And there… again. I spin back to the window. Nothing! Am I finally going completely crazy?! I take several slow steps down the hallway, keeping my eyes fixed to the rooftop. Nothing.

Slowly I turn my head away keeping my eyes to the side. A flash of black. I snap my face back around and see what it is I’ve been seeing. And it’s…

A crow! It’s an effing crow that lands on the rooftop, pecks around for a bit, and then launches itself back into the sky.

I nearly cry with relief. Shadow Man is not stalking me. Jesus H. Christ, I’m certifiable!

  
I make it through the rest of the day without incident. As I’m walking home I studiously keep my gaze fixed on my feet so I don’t see anymore crows or black colored objects to freak me out.

Good Kate and Bad Kate are presently engaged in a spirited argument about the questionable state of my sanity, or lack thereof. Good Kate seems half convinced that Shadow Man is a warlock who can transform himself into a crow at will. Bad Kate sneers sarcastically that he’s probably a Time Lord and maybe if I go back to my rooftop tonight he’ll whisk me away in a blue Police Office Call Box! I wish! Good Kate takes offence at Bad Kate’s sarcasm and sulks. 

I push open the front door, already mentally planning what I’ll make mom for dinner, and then where I’ll take Giselle tonight. Tardis here or there, there’s _no way_ I’m going back to that damned rooftop tonight. I may be dumb but I’m not _that_ dumb! I think that I haven’t been to good ole Lincoln Park in a while. Those statues in the plaza always yield some great, artsy-fartsy photos.

I’m so immersed in my thoughts that the first punch catches me completely unawares. I get spun around, smacking my face into the door which is still open. I go down, feeling a cut split open through my eyebrow.

“So we’re skipping school now, you lazy piece of shit!?” she screams, kicking me hard in the chest.

“No, mom… stop…”

“No? Don’t you lie to me! The school called. You skipped your entire first period. What were you doing? Having a lie in, or where you out screwing some random guy? Huh? Answer me you little slut!”

“No, mom, I wasn’t. I just overslept, I swear. My alarm didn’t go off…” I try to clamber to my feet. Big mistake. She screeches derisive laughter like a demented velociraptor as she punches me across the face. My lip splits. I go back down.

“So you’re gettin' careless now?! What’s next? You’ll forget to turn the stove off? You’d just love to have this entire house burn down around me, wouldn’t you, you useless whore?” she starts kicking me repeatedly in the ribs. 

I try desperately to crawl away from the assault. “No, mom, please. It won’t happen again. I’ll do better, I promise.”

“Promise? Promise? You always promise. And then you go and do the same thing again, embarrassing me! God, I should have _aborted_ you!” She’s apparently reached exhaustion because she lets off me with one last kick to my screaming ribs and then retreats, panting heavily. I guess it’s one of the plus points of having a mom gorked on drugs; she’s not too fit either and can’t keep at me for as long as she probably wants to.

I flop onto my back, trying to gasp in enough air to not black out. I know I need to start on my chores and soon, otherwise she’ll be back as soon as she gets her second wind. I haul myself onto my hands and knees, folding one arm across my upper rib cage. I grit my teeth hard to keep from letting the pained sounds that creep up my throat escape. 

I drag myself to the stairs, then use the railing to pull myself up to my feet. I take several deep breaths, as deep as I can with my protesting ribs. 

I schlep myself into the kitchen where I start to clean up the gigantic mess she made and makes every morning when she hunts together breakfast, holding a dish towel to the cut on my eyebrow to absorb the still trickling blood, as I work methodically and on autopilot. 

I manage to clean and make dinner for her without any further provocations of her temper. I drag myself up to my room where I collapse onto the floor. I struggle to breathe properly. My gaze falls on my backpack. The pills. Inside. This is a good enough reason to warrant one of my precious cache. Maybe two. 

Bad Kate is uncharacteristically silent while Good Kate fawns concernedly. She wants me to stick to just one pill; it’s safer. Bad Kate holds up two fingers behind Good Kate’s back.

Wishing them both to the deepest pits of hell I manage to crawl into my bathroom where I can lock the door just in case _she_ decides to come check on me. Highly unlikely but better safe then sorry. If she discovers that I’m stealing her meds she might honestly, actually kill me.

In the bathroom I take one pill and then a second, because why the flipping hell not, and chase them both down with the contents of my vodka-water bottle, because also why the flipping hell not. Alcohol and drugs? Not a good mix. We’ve already experienced this once before! But what do I care?! It begins to kick in not even two minutes later. 

I sigh deeply, letting my head drop back against the wall. God, I needed this. As much as I hate it, I need it. I stand up and walk gingerly over to the mirror. My body no longer hurts but it feels tender and fragile, as if something as simple as bumping my hip against the sink will break me apart like cheap porcelain. I take a deep breath to prepare myself before I lift my eyes to my reflection. My lips curl in disgust as I see my face. It has looked worse than this before, but not very often. My cheek is swollen and red and there’s dried blood crusted around my eyebrow and smeared over my forehead. More blood dribbles over my chin from my split lip. My brown hair is matted with it too. I notice though, with detached pleasure that the bruises left by Shadow Man’s crushing metal fingers have almost faded completely. Gingerly I lift up my shirt, rising onto my tiptoes so I can asses the damage to my ribs in the mirror. 

Dark purple shadows are beginning to bloom underneath my skin. Parts of it are abraded and other parts are split open, though the cuts no longer bleed. I know that tomorrow the bruises will be even darker and more painful. I pull my shirt the rest of the way over my head, then divest myself of the rest of my clothes and stagger into the shower.

I feel better after I’ve washed all the blood, sweat, and general grime off me. I make my way back to my room praying that she won’t need me anymore for the rest of the day. I kill the hours before she goes to bed by doing my homework while my two companions argue in my head. I tune them out until their voices are just a buzzing in the background. Like flies! 

As I wrangle with math and my uncooperative brain I can’t help but think about my general academic performance. Really I should be making better grades than I do since I really do a fair chunk of my assignments and I study quite a bit for tests too, when I’m allowed the time. But I can’t always upkeep those stellar habits because sometimes I’m kept hopping all day cleaning the house, other times I’m lying on my bed in an alcohol induced stupor, and still other times I’m too beaten up and sore to move. And the rest of the time I just can’t be bothered. 

Most of my teachers like to punish me though because I’m, apparently, such a pest in their classes. I mean honestly I don’t know what they have against me, it’s not like I sit there calling out snarky comments, or correcting them all the time, or just in general being a pain in the ass. I just sit there. Literally. Often I nap. Hey, I need to sleep sometime… I don’t pay attention. I don’t do class work. Whatever. I just want to be left alone. Why can’t they return the favour.

Whatever!

Surprise reigns supreme when at 9:30 my father’s car pulls into the driveway. I lower my pencil from the algebra problem that has been frying my already fried brain for the past half hour and listen. The yelling starts almost immediately. _“Where the hell have you been?” “None of your fucking business!” “It is too my fucking business when you’re out there squandering money and leavin’ me here to rot!” “Ah, shut up!” “No, I will not shut up! I’ll tell you something–”_ And then their raised voices intermingle into a cacophonic choir of hate and brewing resentment spewed out across the ground floor of our mid sized co-op and bubbling up the stairs like boiling acid to infect me too. I close my eyes trying to block it all out and retreat to my happy place. Problem is I don’t really have one… 

With the first telltale sound of fist against face my eyes spring open. My teeth are clenched so hard I think I can feel my jaw bone cracking. I jump to my feet and head over to the window, which I wrench open sticking my head into the cold night air. 

I’m trying not to feel sorry for her. I’m trying. She doesn’t deserve it. But, thing is, I do. Because I know how it feels to get beaten up by someone who’s supposed to love you. In her case a husband, in my case a mother. I know I shouldn’t feel empathy because no matter how shitty he treats her there’s no reason for her to turn around and treat me the same. In what? Retaliation? Why? It’s not like he loves me so much that hurting me is a way for her to get back at him. Fuck if I know what motivates her. But I somewhere in my acerbic heart I _do_ feel sorry for her and I hate that I can’t help it! And I hate that I want to not feel this way. How much of a heartless bitch does that make me? As much as her?

Good Kate tries to gentle me, telling me that I am a good person; nothing like my mother or my father. Bad Kate sides with her for once but she wants me to march my ass down those stairs and give both my progenitors a piece of my mind! Good Kate is 100% not on board with this plan!

I really want to scream! I want to just let rip the sounds of agony, rage, despair, and hopelessness that live inside of me. I want to see if anyone will actually give a damn about my wellbeing if I let that sound escape. I imagine my parents rushing up the stairs, all concerned about me. I imagine the neighbors spilling out of their houses and running across the street asking if we’re alright. I imagine some concerned passerby calling 911 because he thinks someone is getting slaughtered in here. But in reality I don’t think anyone will care. Least of all my parents…

I drop to my knees and lay my sore cheek on the windowsill. The cool marble feels good. Again, as I so often do in these situations I remember how it used to be. Back when we were a family. I was young so I don’t really remember a lot, but clear pictures stand out in my mind. My father always cleanly shaven, usually in slacks and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone. Laughing, twirling me through the air. We would go tree climbing and exploring the neighborhood, apple picking, me riding on his shoulders. My mother, smiling, with long, shiny hair, letting me try on her shoes and dresses and fancy hats even though they were clearly way too big for me. We’d play dress up in ridiculous clothing and then we’d go to random high end tea shops like that. Both of them, walking through downtown DC, with me in their middle holding one of my hands each and swinging me up between them on every third step. 

I remember how it all changed. My dad lost his job. I don’t know why that hit him so very hard that time since now he goes through about one job a year… But it did. Suddenly he started coming home later and later and sometimes not at all. And when he was home he was scruffy and stinky and he reeked of hard liquor. And he was loud. Always shouting; always yelling, slamming doors and cabinets, throwing things. My mother, very pregnant, tried to shield me from the worst of it at first. We were still a team. She told me that as soon as my baby brother was born everything would be alright again; Daddy would be happy again and he’d laugh again. 

But my baby brother was never born.

My dad came home one day, earlier than what was the norm now. As soon as his car pulled up in the driveway my mom sent me outside to the backyard to play. I tried to ignore the sounds that were coming from inside; retreated to the very furthest corner of the yard to the flower beds that used to be my mom’s pride and joy, that I’d never been allowed to play in, but which were now withered and neglected. Kind of like me… I’d heard the distinct sound of a crisp, hard slap ringing all the way back to me. I kept playing. I’d heard my dad slam the front door. I kept digging my fists into the dried out soil. I heard his car burning rubber as it screeched out of the driveway and sped off down the street. I kept sifting the crumbly earth through my fingers.

Then I heard my mom calling for help.

I ran inside, smeared with dirt, and found her in a huge puddle of blood on the kitchen floor, holding her bulging belly. I’d ran to the phone and called 911. Three large men in bulky suits with a wailing, flashing ambulance showed up and took my mom away. They were loud and talking over each other, worry very clear in their jumbled, raised voices. No one seemed to consciously notice that they were leaving a six year old home by herself…

When the ambulance had sped out of sight I went back inside. I wasn’t sure what to do but I knew that if my dad came home and saw the mess in the kitchen he’d yell. And without the buffer of my mother there, he’d yell at me. He’d been yelling at her for a lot less mess than this lately… And so I grabbed towels from the bathroom and mopped up the scarlet tide as best as I could. I braved the basement which was always dark and had always scared the crap out of me because I imagined monsters lurking in every shadowed corner, and stuffed the soaked red towels into the washing machine. I’d never worked the thing myself before but I’d seen my mom do it and so I poured in what I guessed to be the right amount (too much) detergent, cranked the dial and watched the thing rumble to life. Then I fled back upstairs before the monsters could wrap their slimy fingers around my skinny little ankles and chain me down in the scary basement realm forever. I attacked the rest of the stain with the mop which stood a head and a half taller than me. The blood had dried into a crusty ring and I had to scrub hard to get it all off. I rinsed the mop out in the kitchen sink, standing on a wobbly chair.

By the time the mess was handled I was exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep; didn’t want to. I was too nervous, too afraid, too worried about my mom. No one came home that night. I locked all the doors and windows and spent the entire night sitting wide eyed like an owl on the sofa, flinching at every tiny noise, just waiting for monsters, murderers, and burglars to come and get me. But no monsters, murderers, or burglars came. My father did.

He stumbled into the house in the wee hours of the morning, bleary eyed and glancing off the walls. Piss drunk, I later realized. But also grieving. The glaze over his eyes was not wholly induced by alcohol. Tears. But I wouldn’t find out what they were for until the next day.

He left without acknowledging me but then he came back half an hour later. He brought me a hamburger, fries, and milkshake then told me to take care of the house and that he’d be back tomorrow, he was going back to the hospital to be with my mom.

And so I spent another night on the sofa, completely and utterly exhausted but unable to fall asleep for fear.

As promised he had returned the next day and he’d brought my mother with him. Her previously huge tummy was now weirdly flat. I’d thrown my arms around her exuberantly, so happy to have her back, but she hadn’t returned my hug, had just stood there stiffly and stared over my head. My dad had forcefully peeled me off her and told me to leave her alone.

I had watched my mom walk away from me without so much as a look backwards and curl up on the sofa. She’d pulled the afghan I’d spent the past two nights cocooned in over her shoulders and turned her back to us. I’d watched as her shoulders started to shake and shudder though she made no sound. I knew she was crying.

I’d turned to look at my father accusingly. It seemed only fitting since he had been the cause of so many of her tears lately. He’d looked back at me guiltily, his own eyes wet. “Your mother lost the baby.” He said simply. “She’ll be sad for a while. Just leave her be.”

I’d frowned. _Lost_ the baby? How did you _lose_ a baby? And shouldn’t we be out looking for it then? Like the next door neighbors when they’d lost their dog last summer?!

My father sensed my confusion. “The baby died!”

The lump on the couch emitted a muffled wail.

My dad winced at the sound. “I’m going out!” he announced abruptly. “Don’t wait up.” 

And he’d left.

After that everything changed. My mother changed. When she finally got up from that couch she was a different person. She started yelling at me for the smallest infractions: walking too loudly, playing too close to her, breathing wrong, being messy. The hitting started soon after. At first just pushes and pinches. Then slaps. Then kicks. Then punches and anything else she could get away with. And she could get away with most everything. I never told a soul. She’d regaled me with horror stories about what would happen if I told. How they’d take me away and give me to another family who’d do the same to me and worse. They’d lock me in a basement. They’d feed me to snakes; I was terrified of snakes. They’d spank me everyday and make me eat raw rat meat. She made me watch this shitty pulp movie called _Mockingbird Don’t Sing_. It’s about a girl who spends the first 12 years of her life tied to a chair in her uncle’s basement before being saved by a social worker. She told me that that would be what would happen to me, but that no one would come save me because I didn’t matter enough to anyone for them to _want_ to save me. Her horror stories served their intended purpose; they terrified me to the point that I never even considered telling anyone what really happened in our house. And I still won’t even though I know that no one’s going to feed me to snakes. But the possible alternatives of rape and molestation at the hands of potential foster fathers and brothers has replaced that old childish fear with a much more real and grown up one. And so I stay…

Movement across the street catches my eye and pulls me out of my memory induced funk. I raise my head blinking hard as I try to focus on Mrs. Next Door's withered hydrangea bush. It looks like there’s someone creeping around behind it, and it’s not the rotund body of Mrs. Next Door, or the stringy one of her beanpole husband either.

It looks like a tall, broad, strong someone. Kind of like… Shadow Man. I jump to my feet, smashing the top of my head with spectacular force against the top of the half open window. My eyes water reflexively, making the already dark world go blurry too. I curse like a drunken sailor as I stagger back from the window, rubbing the crown of my head. Damn, here I am already getting seven shades of shit beaten out of me by my mother and I’ve got nothing better to do than to help her do it?! Fucking pathetic!

By the time my head clears and I’m able to dash the pain induced tears from my eyes, whoever was lurking in the hydrangeas is long gone. If there was anyone lurking there at all in the first place. I mean it’s not the first time I’ve seen phantoms following me around today…

I become vaguely aware that the yelling from downstairs has stopped. A quick glance downwards confirms that my father’s car is once again gone. I look at my clock. Half past eleven. Shit! This is what those darn painkillers do to me; they make me zone out, make me lose large chunks of time. Hours when I only thought it was minutes. Sometimes I crave that slippage of time but not often. And not tonight.

I sigh as I begin my evening preparations, retrieving Gisselle, repacking my backpack, because I don’t bring the alcohol on my nighttime photography forays. I prep my bed, grab my jacket and a hat, because it’s flippin' cold out there and then swing myself out the window. Well, as good as my sore body can swing.

I walk slowly, enjoying the cold night air on my hurting face. I realize pretty quickly that I probably should have taken another pill because the pain is coming back with a vengeance. But I was scared by the hours I’d just lost to them… I didn’t want to lose more time and wake up in the middle of Lincoln Park tomorrow and be late for school again. She might honestly kill me if she got another phone call. I’ll have to be extra careful for the rest of the year, maybe even stay awake and pretend to be interested in class proceedings once in a while. Dammit!

I walk slowly, probably limping a bit, but I’m able to compartmentalize the pain pretty well. I mean it’s not as if I’m not used to doing things in pain. I often go to school like this too since, as I stated before, I don’t go there when I’m drunk or trippin' balls. 

I think I hear footsteps behind me and swing around, my heart in my throat. But there’s no one there. 

What is wrong with me today? Why am I so paranoid?! I know exactly why, but shouldn’t the fact that my constant paranoia being disproven again and again and again all day today be enough to convince me that I am not being stalked by the Shadow Man?! And besides, even if he _was_ stalking me, his footsteps wouldn’t make noise as he walked. Fecking Ninja…

I keep walking, making my way towards the nearest bus stop. There I sit hunkered down like a frozen gargoyle in the little shelter and wait for the great beast to roll up.

Once it does, I gratefully slink inside the heated interior. The bus driver nods at me and even though I generally don’t like sitting close by to the drivers to avoid unwarranted late night conversations of “Why are you out so late on a school night there, little miss?”, today the walk to my usual spot in the back of the bus seems too long for my battered body and so I slump down in the first row of seats, curling up against the window, my ragged breaths quickly creating a fogged up spot on the glass.

The bus has just begun to move when a great bang resounds throughout, emanating from above, and the entire vehicle shudders.

I cry out and sit bolt upright. My panicked eyes are up on the ceiling, my paranoid brain immediately picturing the Shadow Man perched on the roof about to drop down into the bus through the emergency escape hatch and choke me again.

“Relax there, sweetheart. It was just a clump a snow and ice that musta fallen off one of them trees we’re drivin' under.” The bus driver speaks up, pointing out the front window at the large conifers the bus is passing under. Their branches are indeed laden with snow so his words make sense.

I let out a tense breath and, nodding, sink back into my seat. I lean my head against the window again and watch the world go by. One of the perks of nighttime bus riding is that there aren’t a lot of stops at least not until you get further into the city because not as many people are as crazy as me, taking random middle of the night excursions. 

I get off at the Lincoln Park south entrance heading immediately to my favourite spot amidst the presidential statues. There’s a latticework of ice gracing the freezing tin which is going to make for some great shots. I’ve just kneeled down to get a better angle when a twig snaps behind me. I wheel around, clutching my camera tightly and staring into the shadows. But no matter how hard I strain my eyes I see nothing. 

I transfer my pepper spray from my backpack into my pocket anyway, then kneel down in the snow again, snapping off a few shots of the ice flowers that coat ol' Abe's face like a layer of lace. 

I wander around a bit finding new places and things to snap, but I’m not really feeling it today. My ribs are throbbing and I’m jonesing for something to take the edge off. I feel jittery and antsy. Then I remember a mashed, half empty packet of cigarettes in the front pocket of my backpack. I’m not a big smoker but once in a while the rush of nicotine is exactly what I need. I dig them out and light one, sticking it between my cold lips, then find a bench and sit down on it, thinking I can just soak in the solitude of the night for a while and use it to re-center myself. But I can’t find that peace that usually comes over me once it’s dark and I’m out of my house. Tonight, for whatever reason, it evades me. My knee bounces restlessly up and down as I shiver in the cold. White smoke curls prettily up into the inky black sky.

Suddenly a different sort of shiver entirely passes through me as the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. There is someone behind me. I didn’t hear anything this time, but I can feel it!

I try to calm my racing heart, it’s probably just a homeless person cutting through the park on the way to some shelter and a nice, hot bowl of soup.

I turn my head slowly to look over my shoulder.

He stands in the shadows between two trees, almost completely blended in with the night. I can just make out his outline though, and I know that’s intentional. I know he could stand in such a way that he’d disappear completely into the darkness and I wouldn’t be able to see him but he’d still see me just as clearly as he does now.

I swallow hard, my mouth and throat suddenly dry. What does this mean now? Have I not just been imagining seeing him following me all day? Has he really been there? Tailing me? Why? 

He stands still as a statue but I know he knows I’ve seen him. Is he waiting for a reaction from me? What kind of a reaction? Running and screaming? Uselessly attacking? Fainting in fright? 

“Hi…” I say softly, my voice scratchy.

He takes a step forward into the dim, yellow glow of the antiquated, old fashioned street light that stands beside my bench. His footsteps crunch in the snow.

I sit stock still as he comes closer, knowing from experience that running does no good. He stops beside the bench, looking down at me. At least I think he’s looking down at me; his face is still covered but it’s pointed toward mine. “You shouldn’t smoke.” That gravelly, raspy voice sounds from behind the black material, as his metal hand indicates the lit cigarette smouldering between my fingers.

I glance down, vaguely surprised that he should be taking offence to this off all things. Normally when people give me the ‘smoking is bad for you’ spiel I scoff at them, but in present company I’m rather inclined to believe that sarcasm would get me hurt. I quickly stub out the offending nicotine-and-tar-stick, mumbling “Sorry.”

His head tilts to one side, regarding my bowed head closely for a second, then he rounds the bench and sinks down onto it next to me.

My eyes widen in surprise. I’m sharing a park bench with a trigger happy ninja mercenary. What is life?

His metal fingers appear in front of my face and I flinch violently. He pauses, his hand flipping slowly into what I think might be a placating gesture, then resumes his slow reach for my face. Cold fingers grip my chin very lightly and tilt my head up and to the side, allowing the full gleam from the light behind us to fall across it.

He slides an inch closer to me and I shy away, a movement that’s stayed by his hand cupping my chin. His flesh hand rises and even though he has never actually touched my face with anything but gentleness I still slam my eyes shut tight. 

The rough pad of his thumb smoothes over the marbled bruise on my cheekbone. I’m tense, waiting for him to press down or something; hurt me, but in a strange way his touch actually seems to be taking away some of the dull throbbing. 

His thumb lifts and then a different finger draws the line of the cut through my eyebrow. This stings and I hiss slightly in protest. He removes his hand but keeps hold of my chin tilting it up, up, up and back until I’m looking at the cloudy sky and the few patches of stars I can see between them.

His fingertips skim my neck and I whine deep in the back of my throat, deathly afraid that he’s gonna start choking me again.

But he doesn’t. He gives a small huff, than releases me. I immediately scoot as far away from him as the span of this tiny bench allows. My hands are shaking and I shove them underneath my thighs to hide that fact from him. Not that it should really matter anyways. I’m sure he can tell that I’m absolutely terrified. 

My thoughts chase each other around in circles in my brain, tripping over each other, like a frenzied puppy trying to catch its own tail. I can’t make sense of anything, I’m confused and frightened, and cold, and confused, and… repeating myself… and…

“Why are you here?” I blurt out before I can consider the wisdom of both questioning his motives and yelling at him.

He does not look at me, keeps staring resolutely straight ahead out over the grassy expanse. I start to think he’s not going to answer, when he speaks, voice muffled and so quiet behind the mask that I almost don’t catch what he says. “I don’t know.”

Oh. Aces. Well that helps me greatly! “Were you following me?”

His head turns towards me in slow motion. I wish I could see his face, determine from whatever expression he’s wearing whether he has murderous intentions or not. “Would it scare you if I was?”

What kind of a question is that? “Uh… yea. Probably.”

He nods, silently accepting this. “Then I wasn’t.”

It basically confirms that he was though. “So then what were you doing all day?”

“Reconnaissance.”

I go cold. Colder than I already am in this tits freezing night. “Am I your new mission?” my voice shakes as I imagine him blowing me up like he did with his last mission. I wonder if I could convince him to wait until I get back home and then blow up the entire house around me and taking my mom out too. Remove _that_ evil from the world.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you are.”

Okay, so what does that mean?! “Well I’m not an alien if that helps.”

Colonel Stoic does not crack a smile. Or… actually I don’t know; he could be smiling behind that mask. But I somehow doubt it.

“Then what are you?”

“Tired…” the word drops out between my numb lips without my volition. I didn’t mean to say it; I don’t know what I meant to say but certainly not that. But it’s as if everything, the stress and fear of the past two days, the sleepless nights of the past thirteen years, the abuse, the yelling, the drinking and pills, the constant highs and lows and ups and downs, and just the general shitshow of my life suddenly collapses its full weight on me and I find myself being more honest with this badass ninja assassin than I have willingly been with anyone in a long time.

He seems to understand that I don’t mean sleepy tired because he doesn’t chastise me, as others naturally would in this situation, telling me that it’s 2 o’clock in the mcfucking morning and if I was so very tired then I should stop whining like a little bitch and get my ass to bed. But he’s apparently been following me around all day so he most likely heard the screaming match my parents threw and maybe even my mom’s best impersonation of Muhammad Ali too…

I look down at my knees. They’re pressed together tightly though I can still see the weathered wood of the bench in the gap between my thighs. I’m too thin, it strikes me suddenly. The combination losing my appetite to booze and being mostly starved at home the rest of the time have made me loose a shitton of too much weight. It’s never bothered me before; in fact I’ve never consciously even noticed it. Why it should bother me now of all times I don’t know.

“What are you?” I ask mostly to distract myself from the wayward direction of my thoughts.

He seems to consider his answer. Or maybe he's just ignoring me. 

“Dangerous.” 

Apparently not. And that much has been obvious to me right from the start. Is he trying to scare me off? He wouldn’t have to resort to softly spoken self descriptive adjectives to do that. All he’d have to do is turn on me suddenly and yell _BOO_ and I’d bolt like a scared little rabbit. 

“Why were you following me?”

“I was trying to figure out what you are.”

We’re going around in circles here… “Are you trying to figure out what I am so you can decide whether to kill me or not?”

His face turns back towards me. “No.”

God. Cryptic enigma, stuffed inside a paradox, with a shiny metal arm! “Because you’ve already decided you’re going to?”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Oh. That’s a relief. Although I don’t necessarily believe it. “Pinky promise?” I ask before I can stop to think about what I’m saying.

When I do I want nothing more than to bang my dumb head against the nearest tree, or maybe the metal pole of the streetlight. _What_ is the matter with me? Am I asking to make _pinky promises_ with this murderous mountain of a man beside me? _Why_ am I asking to make pinky promises with this murderous mountain of a man beside me??? Have I finally completely taken leave of the rest of my already rather questionable senses? Has the cold air frozen my brain? Cripes!

He’s staring at my raised pinky and I get the impression that he’s calculating just how much force it would take for him to break it. Not all that much I’m guessing. In fact he could probably break my pinky with _his_ pinky.

Then very slowly he raises his metal arm and wraps his little finger around mine. I feel my eyes go wide at the fact that Lord of the Night over here actually knows what a pinky promise is! He doesn’t seem the type to surround himself with giggling young girls in the right age demographic to have previously explained this BFF ritual to him.

I let go as soon as he lets me, my hand crawling back to hide beneath my thigh. The area that was just pressed against the freezing metal of his hand tingles weirdly.

But still, he’s now officially promised to not kill me, so that’s something. I aggressively ignore the fact that in the land of night-timey shadow assassins such things as pinky promises are probably quite low tier in the words-to-be-kept category. Maybe I should have bribed him instead?! Ha! With what? My wits? My tits...?

“What’s your name?” I ask quickly, the question spewing out of me to take my mind of various methods of bribery I might have to employ should he renege on his sacred/not so sacred word from moments ago.

“I don’t have one.” 

He doesn’t have a _name?_ Who doesn’t have a name? Apparently dark and scary ninjas of darkness and death.

I frown at him. “What do people call you when they see you walking down the street and want to talk to you?”

“They scream.”

“Well that’s not helpful. I can’t call you _aaaaah!”_

“Why do you want to call me anything?”

“I dunno. You’ve been following me round all day, I feel like that warrants a first name basis. I’d say we’re there, pal!” I wince slightly. Sarcasm generally results in me getting smacked. But it’s my default setting so I can’t suppress it and as a result get smacked quite often.

He doesn’t smack me though, he just turns away from me again. “Sometimes they call me the Asset.”

The Asset. Why? Because of his ass? Because that’s definitely an _ass_ et if I’ve ever seen one. Stop. Stop it now! 

“Other times they call me the Winter Soldier.”

“The _Winter_ Soldier. What do they call you in June? The Summer Soldier?”

His face turns towards me again. “No.”

I cower slightly. That face hidden so completely behind that mask and goggles, coupled with the emotionless voice still scares me shitless. “I’m gonna call you Winter.” I decide.

“Why?”

“I have to call you something. Or would you rather I call you Bob?” 

He turns away again. “No.”

“See?!”

We lapse into silence for a time. I fidget nervously beside him while he sits still as a rock. “I’m Kate.” I finally announce to the night, because the prolonged period of one sided awkwardness is wearing on me.

He doesn’t react. 

I garner some small levels of confidence that he’s not gonna suddenly jump down my throat and so I start to intermittently peek up at him from beneath the curtain of my hair.

I’m pretty sure he knows I’m studying him and when my sneaky perusals garner no adverse reaction from him I start to look for longer and longer periods of time.

There’s something about him… the way he sits. Relaxed but tense at the same time. He’s taking up the entire right side of the bench, manspreading to the max, his right arm in his lap, the left arm stretched casually along the back of the bench in that universal putting-the-arm-around-the-girl-but-not-quite-actually-physically-putting-it-around-her kind of way. Except I’m not sitting close enough to be in the vicinity of his arm around me area. I think if he stretched, his fingertips might just graze my shoulder. He looks for all the world to be at ease. But still his muscles are coiled taut, ready to spring into deadly action at a moment’s notice. 

There’s an ethereal calm around him but like the relaxed attitude I sense that it’s only on the surface. It’s as if I can tangibly feel through some weird thread of consciousness linking us together, that his mind is in a turmoil frenzied enough to rival mine. The mask and goggles of course hide his features but I think that even if I could see his face I wouldn’t be able to gauge _any_ of whatever he might be feeling and thinking on the inside.

My perusal turns to the outside. He’s dressed as he has been every time I’ve seen him, completely in black from head to toe. For the first time I notice the details though. His jacket is a heavy, tight material, maybe reinforced leather, and today it covers his entire metal arm instead of being ripped off at the shoulder. It looks almost reminiscent of an old fashioned strait jacket. There’s a gun holster strapped across his chest though I see no gun at present. Don’t these things traditionally go over the shoulders? He looks like he’s wearing one of those harnesses that can have a leash clipped to them. The weird muzzle mask covering his lower face only underscores the impression I get that someone’s trying to make him feel like a dog; owned and controlled.

What does that mean though? I’m pretty sure I know that he’s working for someone, but does this indicate that he’s not working for them willingly? Or does he just think this look is cool? Am I reading entirely too much into this? Probably.

My gaze shifts to his face. I kind of wish I could see it. Does he look as frightening as I imagine him to under there. Savagely handsome and dangerously hot? Or does he have a boyish babyface. Does he have scars? Freckles? A beard? What color are his eyes? Is his nose crooked? Are his lips soft and full; his cheeks chubby?

Now his hair; that I can see. It’s brown, a warmer, shade than I thought originally with a few lighter streaks highlighting at random. It looks soft and hangs long enough to tickle his chin, blowing around his hidden face in the gently freezing breeze.

Against my better judgement I once again find myself raising my camera almost by instinct and pointing it in his direction. The shutter clicks and the film whirrs. He doesn’t react; doesn’t even flinch.

I lower the camera again and shiver. His head turns, pinning me with that stare that I can’t see so much as physically _feel._ “You’re cold.”

I nod.

“You should go.”

“Are you gonna follow me?”

“No.”

“Got places to be, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Do I wanna know where?”

“Probably not.”

Alrighty then. I stand up, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I use a little too much oomph and it swings around me and smacks hard into my sore ribs. I cry out softly, grabbing my side.

He’s on his feet and in front of me, towering over me in a flash. I cry out again, this time in fear instead of in pain and stumble back so quickly that I trip over my own feet and land on my ass in a pile of snow.

My hand lands on something hard and cold. I look down and give yet another strangled cry. There, half buried in the snow, underneath the tree I saw him standing under earlier, is a small pile of guns and other weaponry. I scramble to my feet, putting distance between both that pile and the soldier in front of me. He’s staying well back, watching me closely. Assessing me, I think.

Slowly, a single thought lodges in my panic addled brain with a _clunk._ His weapons are here. He’s over there. He took them off deliberately. Why? To not frighten me? So he wouldn’t be tempted to kill me?

I look down again at the pile at my feet. Unbidden the thought rises that I could just… grab one and shoot him… That way I won’t have to be afraid anymore even though he’s promised not to hurt me. Well, not kill me actually, not not hurt me. But I don’t want to, disregarding the fact that my chances of actually getting to a gun and firing it _and_ actually hitting him are less than nil. And I’m pretty sure that such an attempted action would null and void that pinky promise…

My mind chooses that moment to remind me of the fact that this guy is a murderer. I have seen him kill seven people with my own eyes; at least five of them completely innocent. Wouldn’t I be doing humanity a favor if I took him out? 

Pfft. Listen to me. _Took him out!_ What do I think I am; some Avengers level type super spy? Am I suffering from illusions of grandeur and picturing myself as the Black Widow? Hilarious. I’m a teensy little ninety-pounds-soaking-wet bag of bones, with no physical strength to speak of, multiple probably cracked ribs, and an addiction to hard liquor, as well as a borderline dependency on prescription painkillers and semi serious nicotine cravings. Even if he wasn’t some badass super mega assassin/soldier/secret weapon type shadow phantom I wouldn’t stand a single chance.

Plus I’ve never fired a gun in my life and by the time I figure out how to work one of these ridiculously sophisticated machines of mass destruction he’ll have riddled me with bullets and turned me into a slice of Swiss cheese ten times over!

I take another step away from the pile so I don’t get any other stupid ideas, because for some reason my impulse control doesn’t really seem work around him.

When I raise my eyes to his covered ones again I find him still looking at me studiously. I feel like there might be waves of pity washing off him, probably because he knows exactly what foolishness I was thinking of attempting and feels sorry that I’m so utterly pathetic.

“What’s wrong with your ribs?” he asks and I look down at where my hand is still unconsciously clutching my ribcage, remembering that this was what started the whole panicked mess.

I take another step back. “Nothing.” 

I can practically feel his contemptuous look boring into me even though I still can’t see anything of his face.

“I fell down the stairs.” The lie, told many, many times before, rolls easily off my tongue.

For the first time ever I see a change in his hidden face, some show of emotion perhaps. A single wrinkle appears high on his forehead as if he’s scrunching up his face with worry? Anger? Doubt? Suspicion? Annoyance? More pity?

I swallow hard and force myself to let go of my sore side. “I… I’m gonna go, okay? Can I go?”

His forehead wrinkles further. Confusion?

“You don't have to ask.”

 _The heck I don’t!_ “Okay. Well, um… it was… uh…” What? _Nice to see you again?_ Seriously?! _Kind of you to not murder me?_ Better. But still…

“Yeah. Okay. Bye.” I toss out then turn away. I look over my shoulder one more time to see him still standing there, watching my retreat. “Don’t follow me.”

I turn back one more time at the entrance to the park. I can just barely see the trees; the streetlight is illuminating the place where I left him, but the Winter Soldier is nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, these really be some long ass chapters right now! Y'all better be appreciating them. Just kidding!  
> Hope you liked.  
> Thanks for reading.  
> Any comments are appreciated, and commenters are adored in this house!  
> 💕💕💕


	4. Shattered Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS for some self harm, body image issues, descriptions of an undernourished body, aftermath of abuse, and some mild drug usage.  
> Bit of a shorter chapter but the divide between this one and the next one is very decisive. You'll see.  
> Enjoy.

School the next day is an exercise in torture. My whole body hurts. My face throbs and my ribs protest no matter what I’m doing; when I sit, when I stand, when I walk, when I breathe… I’d covered the bruise on my cheek with makeup and I wear a black hoodie the hood of which I keep pulled up over my head casting my face and my lacerated eyebrow in shadow. The hood gets me yelled at by several teachers who say that it’s rude to walk around with my head covered like that. They yell at me to take it off and I ignore them. Mr. Smythe even goes as far as to yank the hood from my head to which I reply by putting my head down on my desk. I hear him heave a giant sight that would rival the noises of a pack of walruses, then he gives up and leaves me to my misery.

Mr. B. throws a concerned glance my way too but I ignore him as well. He senses that today would not be a good day to push me and so he leaves me be to nap at my desk while the rest of the class splits off into groups to do labs. I really want to get up and participate in my favourite class but I’m just so bone weary that I can’t bring myself to even lift my head. I’ve been fighting tears all day, which is crazy because I never cry anymore, at least not from emotion. Good Kate has made a few listless attempts at motivating me, but since all her lackluster enthusiasm has, as usual, fallen on deaf ears she appears to have given up for the time being. Bad Kate, I think is dead. Good riddance!

Halfway through the class a steaming mug of instant coffee appears at my elbow. I lift my head groggily, blinking back the tears to see Mr. B walking away flipping me the bird over his shoulder. Against my will my lips curl into a smile as my cold fingers wrap around the mug.

The coffee and my favourite teacher’s kind gesture work their magic to invigorate me enough to manage to get some work done. Unfortunately thy also revive Bad Kate who’s clearly not dead after all, and she immediately launches into a tirade, still pissed at Mr. Smythe for grabbing at me hours earlier. She wants me to report him and get him fired. Clearly she holds grudges. Good Kate, as is her prerogative, counsels against this. And I wish I hadn’t drunk that coffee!

On the way home I drag my feet but keep my head up. I’m looking for more signs that he’s following me again. The Winter Soldier. I have no idea if I’m hoping that he is or hoping that he isn’t. It feels simultaneously really scary to imagine that I have a master assassin with several guns and knives on his person, tailing me. But on the other hand it doesn’t feel that bad, kind of like I have a really kickass body guard. Not that he’s actually done much in the department of guarding my body… aaand not that that is in any way his job or responsibility. It’s probably just my imagination.

I think back to last night. It was weird to say the least. He didn’t really tell me anything except for his name which is not a name. I’m still scared of him, because I know that he could break me in half with minimal effort. Most people could actually but with him it’s so very, very obvious. 

But there’s something about him. Something… lost. Something broken that calls to the lost brokenness that lives inside me. He intrigues me which in turn freaks me the fuck out. The guy is a cold blooded _murderer!_ I have no business being intrigued by him.

I spend the rest of the day doing my chores while actively trying to avoid my mother. I don’t receive any more serious bruises, only about a dozen small ones that come from her pinching my arm hard and twisting the skin between her fingers whenever I’m within her reach. It hurts, but the pain is minimal compared to other things she’s capable of. Besides she finds my little winces of pain hilarious and if this keeps her in a good enough mood not to seriously hurt me then I will endure a hundred of those little pinches. A thousand!

After I wash her dishes she banishes me to my room telling me to get out of her sight and that “I can’t stand the sight of your stupid, ugly face anymore!”

Well, ditto mom!

But I retreat gratefully to the sanctuary of my room which is the room I hate the least in this house. 

There I very slowly undress myself down to my underwear, telling myself that I want to check the bruises. But in reality the realization from last night plays on a loop in my mind. The one that I am undernourished. I mean I know that, I can quite literally feel it in my bones, but I’d never consciously registered it ‘til last night.

With a deep breath I turn to face the mirror. My nose wrinkles with disgust as I take in the full impact of my reflection for the first time in a long time. I look like shit. And not just because of the bruises that mottle my body; way more than my mother has caused. Every moderately hard impact with anything even remotely solid results in a bruise, and so my shins and hips look like a painter’s palette of blues, purples, greens, yellows, and reds. And even though they blend in with my tan skin tone, they are still visible enough. At least to my practiced eyes, although my darker complexion is one of the reasons why teachers haven't long ago sounded alarm bells. Bruises aren't _as_ visible on me, and what _is_ visible I'll usually hide with makeup. That coupled with my educators' general desire for blindness when it comes to us students has helped me hide the truth for years.

I turn back to my reflection, knowing that dwelling on the _what ifs_ is more than useless. My eyes are sunken into my face, dark circles underneath them. My lips are dry and chapped, my skin broken out in several places and with all the life of a dead slug. My hair is still curly thick but the curls look lifeless, not bouncy or springy at all. I am a skeleton. I am definitely too thin, evidenced by the bones that stick out at sharp angles all over my body. I can count my ribs all the way up to my sternum. My collarbones could probably hold a liter of water in their hollows and my hip bones look like they’ll tear through the paper thin skin stretched tautly across my stomach if I twist my upper torso to the side too fast.

A haze of anger descends on my mind. Anger at my mother for starving me and beating me, anger at my father for having forgotten I exist, anger at my teachers for not giving a crap even though I’m glad they don’t because of all the complications that would bring with it, anger at the Winter Soldier for somehow being indirectly responsible for opening my eyes to this shitty truth about myself that up ‘til yesterday I was more than happy to keep ignoring, uncaring if I wasted away into more of a nothing and an empty husk than I already am. And anger at myself. For letting it get this far, for being so fucking weak, for letting anyone and everyone walk all over me, for destroying my body and mind with alcohol and not caring enough to even consider stopping even in the face of this! The rage burns through me, eclipsing everything until, without my conscious permission, my hand has balled into a fist and is flying at the mirror, directly at my own reflected face.

A sharp pain slices through me, evaporating the anger in a heartbeat. I give a strangled gasp and fold over forward, instinctively curling my body around my injured hand, cradling it against my chest. 

_Fuck!_ What was I thinking?! Aren’t I beat up enough? Why do I always have to help her?

Tears drip from the end of my nose into the carpet and I tell myself that I’m crying because of the pain that shoots through my fist, not because of the utter sense of hopeless despair that has now replaced what minutes ago was seething, irrational rage.

I don’t look at my fist, I just head to the bathroom and run it under water, hissing as it stings away the blood. Then I wrap an Ace bandage, of which I keep a generous supply, around it. I head back to my room also ignoring my shattered mirror and the wickedly sharp pieces of glass that litter the floor. 

I need to get out of here! Need to hit the streets. Be free, as free as I ever can be in the darkness of the night. I need to walk, maybe even run until my unfit lungs can’t take anymore and rupture, sending bubbles of oxygen through my veins. But I can’t. Not while she’s still awake. I can’t risk her needing me and me not being here. If she finds out about my night time excursions that’ll be the end of them. She’ll lock me in my room indefinitely and probably put bars on my windows. And I can’t let that happen; I can’t lose the only freedom I have, limited though it is. If I do I’ll go insane. I’ll take all the pills I still have, plus all of hers too, melt them down into one giant vat of poisonous sludge and inject it directly into my ventricular vein! 

And so I stay, even though the urge to just say _fuck it all_ and go is lighting all my nerve endings up from the inside out. I pace like a caged panther, swilling vodka by the hour.

Wisely Good Kate and Bad Kate have retreated to whatever musty cave they hide in when they’re not annoying the shit out of me. I probably scared them off with my violent Hulk Smash impression earlier. Good!

Finally _she_ goes to bed! I’m out the window and down the street like a shot. There’s no chance of me going into town today; I need to zone myself out on booze completely, not just the little tiny sips I’ve been knocking back for the past hours, no. I need to suck down at least a bottle or two, need to dull my miserable existence for a while even if it’s just for one night. But the image of scarecrow me from earlier won’t leave my brain. I know that as soon as I have a higher concentration of ethanol coursing through my blood I won’t be hungry any more, and so I swing into McDonald’s, spending a few bucks of my precious squirelled away money on their dollar menu.

I hold my greasy bagged bounty in my arms, tucking it underneath my jacket, where it rests warmly against my empty stomach.

I head back to my office building hideout. The spot doesn’t bother me as much anymore after yesterday, even though I was sure I would die here. Twice. 

I tell myself firmly that I am _not_ heading here because I hope that _he_ will be there again. That’s ridiculous! It’s just too much effort to find another place like this that easily lets me access the roof.

It’s cold and so I hide in my tarp tent, turning on my space heater. I make a mental note to put some batteries in my backpack so I’m prepared when these zonk out.

I pull the bag of fast food out of my jacket and study it with distaste. I am not hungry. I know that I should be but I’m not. The burger I’d bought smells and looks so utterly unappetizing to me that I consider throwing it down into the street to watch it splatter on the burned spots on the pavement. Ketchup blood, doughy flesh, minced meat brains, mayonnaise pus.

Food isn’t what I need. I think I’m at the point where I’ve transcended past being a human altogether and I’m now somehow _less._

Fuck me, I’m pathetic!

I open the zippered of my backpack and stare that the two glass bottles inside. One vodka, one jack daniels. Which one do I chose first this fine night? Or maybe forgo getting completely shitfaced and take another pill, or ten?

My heavy heart and self hatred filled brain say they want the giddy excitement and lifting spirits of the alc, but my throbbing bruises, and aching hand make a very convincing argument for the mind numbing opioids.

Eeney meeney miney mo…

Fuck it. I grab the pills. Three this time, down the chute. Dry swallowed. I only have five left now. Not enough. Need to get more. How? Steal? Sell more pics? The thought of the latter fills me with that old but oh so familiar self hatred! 

I quench it and munch listlessly on a few fries while I wait for the pills to take effect. I’m clumsy and drop a lot of fries since I have to do everything left handed because my right hand isn’t working properly.   
  
Slowly, much slower than usual, or maybe I’m just too torqued up on self hatred and pity that it seems to take longer, the languid heaviness of the painkillers spreads through my body like a slow bubbling flow of hot, sticky syrup. The pain dulls into the background and I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I sag back into the wall, wrapping the blanket around me. I’m not cold but I know without the mind numbing drugs I would be and so I need to take precautions to keep my body warm.

I light another cigarette and let the numbness take me away on waves of self loathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Bucky in this one but you'll get an abundance of him in the next few chapters. One of which I'm posting right now, because I don't want to leave y'all Buckyless for too long.  
> I hope you're liking the story so far!  
> Thank you for reading.


	5. Remember Don't Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS for mentions of torture both mental and physical, as well as abuse and injuries.  
> This chapter is different. I hope you all like it! 🤞🏻

  
She’s back again, that girl. He can tell as soon as he steps out between the tall buildings. His night vision goggles can clearly pick out the little spot of light on the roof that her cigarette makes in the pitch black night.

Smoking. He doesn’t know why the smoking bothers him so much. It’s not the smell, or the smoke, or even the fact that it is supposedly harmful. He doesn’t care; has been trained not to care about any of it. But there’s some connection to smoking that niggles at the very back of his mind though he attempts to block it out as per his training.

But he can’t shake the thought that someone he once knew smoked. Someone important to him. 

And because he knows he shouldn’t be having these thoughts, shouldn’t be having these memories no matter how vague they are, he doesn’t want her to smoke, wants her to stop.

Because memories evoke feelings, and feelings bring pain. And then they hook him back up to the machine and drive the mental ice picks into his brain to force out the memories, eradicate the feelings.

And it is better to avoid that; so it’s better to avoid feeling anything.

He wonders why he’s back here again. His mission for the night has already been completed, but he is out without coms as he had been for the past few nights too, and so his every move is not being watched by those in charge of him. 

As he stands here, hidden in the shadow his focus on the shape of the girl on the roof while at the same time noticing everything else around him, he remembers the first time he saw her.

The second car had just been hit by his grenade, launching into the air, flipping nose over trunk as it flew towards him in a roaring inferno of flames. The blast of heat brought by the explosion had just washed over him like a wave, accompanied by the across smell of melting rubber, leather, and flesh. The force had rocked him back onto his heels but he’d stood strong, just as he had the first time, though the second car had been closer when the grenade hat hit it. He had known exactly where its burning carcass would land, had been able to tell instinctively that the incinerated hunk of flaming, twisted metal would not reach the place where he stood and so he had not stepped aside. But then he had heard the scream.

If his senses hadn’t been so heightened he probably wouldn’t have been able to pick it up over the roaring of the residual explosions of the two cars’ gas tanks, the crackling of the flames from the first car, and the screeching of metal on pavement as the bombed out hull of the second one scraped itself to a smoldering stop. But he had heard it clear as a bell and his head had swung around determining in a nanosecond where the noise had come from.

And there she had been, silhouetted on the roof with the moon behind her, behind a curtain of thick, noxious smoke. She has been staring straight at him, a witness to what he had done.

A single phrase from years ago flashed through his brain. _No witnesses_. December 16th, 1991… No witnesses. He had failed then, and been severely punished for it even though he had disabled the electronic witness that was the traffic camera after.

No witnesses. No. He wasn’t going to be punished for that again. He stowed his grenade launcher by strapping it across his back and started towards the building, seeing her flee when he began to move. Noting as soon as he pushed through the door that the elevator was broken, he knew that her only route of escape was the stairs.

He started up them slowly, not in a hurry since he knew he had her trapped.

He heard her soon enough, running into a room on the seventh floor to hide uselessly from him.

He had actually been surprised when she flew at his face with that makeshift club. But he had mitigated the threat and then caught her with ease as she attempted to run again.

But as he had pinned her to the desk something had flickered to life in his numb brain. Something about the way she had looked at him with such panic had given him pause.

She was not his mission. His mission had been the two foreign senators. He had accomplished his mission. He had gotten no specific instructions about not leaving behind any witnesses today. It had been strongly implied, he knew that, but no direct orders had been given. So he didn’t _have_ to kill her. He knew that he should, knew that they would want him to if they discovered what she had seen… but they didn’t know. And they wouldn’t, he realized in a flash of blindingly clear consciousness such as he hardly ever experienced anymore. He was without coms. They couldn’t follow his every move as they could when he was wearing his earpiece. They would, no doubt, ask him for a mission report when he returned to base but this was not part of the mission. He could just leave out this part. And if they didn’t specifically ask him about witnesses then he wouldn’t have to say.

It was a moment of clarity like he hadn’t experienced in years. He remembered vaguely having them before, these instincts for rebellion, and also remembered vividly having them violently beaten out of him. But he knew somehow that this was what he needed to do. Not because of feelings and emotions but because of… something else. Some notion that was regressed deep into his washed brain that he was not meant to be their puppet!

He knew that this idea alone would buy him at least a couple of extra hours in the chair if they discovered it, but some old, long ago buried piece of him, of who he knew he once used to be before he had been made to stop caring about it, told him that this was what he needed to do.

And so he’d let her go. And he had gone back. And he had given his report. And he had been wiped as he always was upon the successful completion of a mission.

But what he had not expected was that even after he had been wiped of the memories of the night, the memories of her had remained. Because he had not told them about her and so they hadn’t known to wipe all traces of her existence off his mind. 

When he had awoken from the pain riddled sleep that was the only rest he knew, her face had been burned in behind his retinas. The wide brown eyes, the sharp angles of the bones of her skull, the bruises. The bruises stood out most vividly to him, blending into the warm tawny tone of her skin, but still starkly visible to his enhanced, well trained eyes. He remembered seeing them last night and feeling an odd sort of detached kinship with her. She too was being hurt, knew what life in constant pain felt like.

But then the really miraculous thing had happened. He had remembered the other stuff. The stuff that he was meant to have forgotten. The cars, the bombs, the fire. The rooftop. All of it. Somehow the single memory that they had been unable to wipe had triggered the rest from that night since they were all interconnected. And he had made a self discovery. Normally his life was mission, debrief, report, wipe, sleep, repeat. Yesterday there had been an added personal aspect there. Whenever he gave his mission reports he spoke in detail about everything that had happened from the moment he left the Cryo chamber to the moment he sat back in the chair. And so they knew everything and they wiped everything.

But yesterday he had left out an integral part of the night; integral to him, not to them. And they had not wiped it. And so he had retained it. And through it had been able to make himself recall everything else that had happened. It had been a revelation of tantamount importance somehow, although he did not quite know what to do with that knowledge now.

His mind now flicks through those memories recalling how he had used this newly discovered hack again in the two nights that followed the first and how he had repeated the action. He hadn’t told them about meeting her again and so he still remembered her and everything that had happened despite the wipes. Certain parts were more fuzzy than others but every moment that involved her was crystal clear. Clearer than most other things in his head.

He crosses the street, drawn to her through some strange force. It was the reason why he followed her around all day yesterday. He wanted to know if she was somehow gifted, a danger that Hydra had overlooked, an Enhanced, somehow able to befuddle the senses. 

But she was just a girl. A very, very messed up one by the looks of it. It had left him quite cold seeing the evidence of her harmful habits. But when he had heard her being beaten up by the woman in the house he had felt something igniting his blood. It had been an age old anger; a brewing and simmering residue from a time long past and forgotten. He knew he mustn’t dwell on it because it would only dredge up more memories and _feelings_ and therefore bring more pain. And so he had left. Had left her there to be beaten in the alley—no, on the floor. Where had _alley_ come from?

He had told himself he would not return. She was not a threat and therefore not his problem. But he had returned. And when she left in the cloak of the night he had followed her again. Why, he didn’t know. Maybe to ensure that she wouldn’t get beaten up again.

He pauses in the stairwell. He knows she sits just on the other side of the thin wall of the little house that conceals the top of the stairs that lead to the roof. There’s a thick chain slung through the handle of that door, meant to lock it, but the chain is rusted and probably snapped long ago. He places his left hand against the wall he knows she’s leaning against. The metal fingers can feel the roughness of the stone, but can’t feel the cold of it. He hates the arm, hates it with a passion, but he doesn’t think about that anymore. Because hate is an emotion, as is passion, and so they punish him for it.

He walks out onto the rooftop. She sits there, her eyes closed, head lolling against the wall. The lit cigarette glimmers forgotten between her fingers.

His head tilts to the side. Is she dead? No. Her chest rises and falls almost imperceptibly and little clouds of vapour puff out between her slightly parted lips as she breathes in the cold night air. He studies her face. Its pallor is dull and ashen, as if in illness. Her hair hangs around it, curly and wild. The bruise under her eye that he noticed the first time he saw her is almost completely gone, as is the swelling discoloration on her jaw that appeared the second day. The cut across her eyebrow is crusty and dark red, the area around it inflamed, and tender looking. Her split lip is slightly less swollen than yesterday. The bruise on her left cheek is still the worst; marbled blue and purple and vivid even though her hair is pasted over it, half covering it. She sports no new bruises that he can see. 

He wonders how the ones on her ribs are doing…

Her eyes peel open sluggishly. She blinks at him, not entirely surprised to see him, it seems. Something is different about her, her pupils are blown wide and her movements as she pushes herself to sit up straighter are slow and heavy. “Hiya, Winter.” Her voice is rough and slightly slurred.

He frowns at the name she has given him, taken from his coded title. His arms cross in front of his chest, a protection against the strange notion of having a name again, having his title turned into a name. Names are unnatural, at least for him. He knows he must have had one once but he’s been trained for so long not to care about it. Asking what it was or trying to recall it brings punishment, brings pain.

He sees her shrink back a bit and knows that his stance is aggressive. She can’t see his face and therefore can’t see his confusion. Which is good. Confusion is weakness. Weakness is emotion. Emotion gets you punished!

She looks down at the cigarette between her fingers, the end having burned down so far that the glowing embers touch her skin. She doesn’t seem to notice the heat though, and tosses the butt onto the floor, grinding it out with the heel of her shoe. “Sorry.” She whispers.

He frowns some more. Why is she apologizing?

“I know you don’t like smoking. But I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Right. She thinks he got mad at her yesterday for the cigarette. He doesn’t correct her; doesn’t see the point.

“Why are you here?”

Again he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know himself why he's here, why he came back, and because he doesn’t know he says nothing. Instead he sinks down onto one knee in front of her, reaching out for her face, wanting to be absolutely certain that no new bruises mar it.

He sees her eyes widen slightly as she shrinks back instinctively. He knows she’s still afraid of him but she also doesn’t put up a fight anymore. When he’s convinced himself that her face bears no new injuries he sinks down to the floor beside her.

He knows he shouldn’t stay, knows he should go but he doesn’t want to. For some reason she brings peace and where he is going the only thing that waits for him is pain. There’s something about her… he can’t place his finger on it. She reminds him of someone. Someone he used to know…

No. He can’t think about that, not even here! Because no matter how calm he feels here with her he’s going to have to go back at some point and then there will be pain. And if he doesn’t go back then they will find him and there will be worse pain. And if they find out he’s been thinking about forbidden things…

An involuntary shudder passes through his body.

She cocks her head at him and then moves the tiny little space heater that’s humming obnoxiously in the background, closer to him probably thinking that his shiver was due to cold. Again he doesn’t bother to correct her.

“You hungry?”

He looks up sharply at the softly voiced question. She’s pointing to a brown paper bag from which he can distinctly smell the remains of what might have been her dinner, wafting. His eyes narrow suspiciously behind the goggles. Why is she asking him this? Does she want him to take off his mask? Is that what she’s trying to do? Reveal himself so she can turn him in? 

Turn him in to who? Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. Police would laugh at her and she would never have the means or influence to take it all the way to S.H.I.E.L.D. where she might be believed.

But still… another directive arcs through his mind. _Never take your mask of, soldat. Never let them see your face._

Her slim shoulders hunch inwards. “It was just a question. No need to growl like that.”

She’s still wary of him. Good. But something nudges at his tightly fettered brain. What is it? His conscience? Yes. He feels bad. She was only offering him food; being kind. He hasn’t experienced true kindness in a long, long time.

Something within him breaks apart; a hard chunk of vibranium armor that had been fused around his heart snaps off, and he feels a fissure of warmth inside him. He reaches out slowly and takes the bag she’s still holding, from her hand. “Thank you.”

Her eyes widen slightly at his expression of gratitude. He turns his back to her, removing the lower half of his mask. Even though her intentions were probably innocent he doesn't want to risk the chance that she might not be who all his instincts tell him she is, after all. He can hear her shuffling around behind him, but doesn't turn around. He can practically feel her curiosity and knows she wants to take a peek at his face but for some reason is restraining herself from leaning around him to look. Maybe she understands that if she did that he would leave, wouldn’t let her see. Or maybe she’s still too afraid of him. 

As he unwraps the still warm burger from its foil he remembers the promise she wrung from him yesterday. It was strange that promise. He felt no hesitation in making it because he knows that he’s not bound by simple things such as promises and oaths. He’s bound by pain, and control, and the missions. But still, thinking about it now he doesn’t want to break the promise. And not only because breaking it would mean killing her, but also because it would mean betraying some of whatever little trust she inexplicably seems to have in him.

He hunches his shoulders to make sure that there is no chance at all of her seeing his face and begins to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, Bucky centric chapter. If you read my last story Help Me Breathe you'll know that I eventually started doing Loki POV chapters and liking them. So I tried here with Bucky. Although its from his point of view its not first person. The reason I did this is because I wanted to still draw attention to the fact somehow that bucky isn't himself. He's not BUCKY, he's the WINTER SOLDIER and his thoughts and actions are programmed by Hydra, although Bucky does manage to break through. I don't really know how to describe this, it makes a lot more sense in my head.  
> Also the smoking thing, him not liking that she smokes and remembering someone from his past who smoked is a reference to Steve. Because in the 40s asthma patients (which pre-serum Steve canonically was) were actually sometimes prescribed cigarettes to help with their asthma. Which seems very much counterintuitive, but there you go. Now its not canon that Steve smokes or ever did smoke but I thought it would be an interesting link to Bucky's past and a way for him to somehow remember Steve before he actually remembers him. Because he will!   
> Ooohoooo foreshadowing!  
> Hope you liked that different chapter and that Bucky was still in character as the WS. I really am never sure...  
> Thanks for reading though!


	6. Pinky Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for fear, descriptions of injuries and abuse, bit of underage drinking, and general angstyness  
> Hope you like!

I sit against the wall, my knees tucked into my chest, watching him. I honestly wasn’t entirely surprised when he turned up again in that ghostly way he has of just appearing soundlessly from thin air. I know I should have been surprised and creeped out because it probably meant that he’s still following me, but I wasn’t. For a second I was almost glad to see him. Which is absurd.

Now he’s sitting here about 4 feet away, with his broad back turned firmly to me. I was shocked that he really accepted the food from me, sure that he’d never actually take off his mask. It only occurred to me after I offered him the food in yet another moment of thoughtless impulsivity that he’d have to take his precious mask off to eat and that he likely would never do so with me here. So when he took the bag and even _thanked_ me for it, I was flabbergasted, to say the least.

I want nothing more than to inch forward and see if I can sneak a peek at his face, but I desist because I’m like 99.9% sure that that won’t go over well. Kind of like a “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you" type deal, except it’s “I could let you see but then I’d have to shoot you in the face.”.

Suddenly, without turning his body in the slightest, he reaches his metal arm back and plunks the bag into my lap. “Eat.” He orders when I just stare nonplussed.

I’m still not particularly hungry but I don’t dare disobey. I eat a few more of the lukewarm, soggy fries even though all the salt seems to have evaporated, if it was ever really there to begin with.

My stomach clenches with the first few, but when I force a few more down it relaxes and accepts the questionable nourishment without too much of a fuss.

When Winter finishes with his burger he slips his mask firmly back into place and turns back to me.

“Why do you wear that?” I ask carefully.

His forehead creases. “So no one recognizes me.”

“I don’t think anyone know you exist, ninja man.”

He’s silent. Probably annoyed with me. I curl up tighter, wincing slightly. The effects of the pills are starting to wear off and my various aches and pains are returning with a vengeance. I take several deep breaths through clenched teeth. 

“You shouldn’t let them hurt you.” He says and his voice is soft, gentler than I’ve ever heard it.

“I don’t have a choice!” I say, snappier than I’d meant to.

His head cocks to the side and even through the full face mask it’s as if a fissure of understanding passes between us.

“Do you?” I ask quietly and he jerks ever so slightly.

“Who says there’s anyone hurting me?!” He sounds defensive and caught off guard.

I shrug, not answering, giving him a dose of his own stubborn medicine.

Even through the goggles I can feel him glaring at me.

“What happened to your hand?”

It’s my turn to jerk in surprise. Was that a redirect, or did he only just notice? “Nothing.”

He reaches for me. 

I pull my arm away.

“Let me see.” He orders.

“No.” I say my insides quivering in fear at refusing him.

“Let me see.” He repeats, his voice becoming even more clipped and curt than it normally is.

“No.” Mine in turn is becoming higher and squeakier with my increasing nervousness.

He doesn’t say anything else though I fully expect him to lunge forward and grab my arm. But instead he just crouches in front of me, his hand outstretched, face turned towards me, and I know he’s glaring again.

I chew the insides of my cheek, wondering if I can possibly win this game of chicken. It becomes apparent almost immediately that I can not. He practically freezes into a statue in that way that he has, unmoving, squatted in front of me, looking for all the world as if he’s preparing to settle down for a long wait. His face does not shift away from me and I can feel the weight of his whatever colored eyes on me. 

He waits.

Slowly, swallowing repeatedly, I carefully place my wrist in his outstretched hand. It doesn’t help that it’s his metal one that closes its fingers lightly around my arm. His other hand pushes up my sleeve, then carefully unwraps the bloodstained bandage I’d wrapped around my fist.

I wince as the fabric peels off the places where it’s bonded to the skin with crusty dried blood. The scabs tearing off hurt like heck.

When he’s done he lays the bandage aside and tilts my arm carefully from side to side examining the damage to my knuckles.

“No one did this to you.” He notes and it’s not a question.

I shake my head ashamed, looking at his heavy boots.

“Did you do it to yourself?”

I nod, shame now flushing my cheeks, and heating up my otherwise cold face.

But he offers no judgement, instead reaching into a little utility kit at his side that I hadn’t noticed before because it blends in so completely with his black clothes. From within it he pulls a pair of tweezers of all things.

I must look confused because he explains; he actually _explains_ something to me. “There’s glass in there. It needs to come out or it’ll fester.”

What was he? A doctor in a previous life? 

“Ow..!” I complain when he, none too gently, starts digging pieces of reflective glass out of my knuckles.

“Did you punch a window?”

“A mirror.”

He says nothing though any normal person would almost definitely ask why exactly I would go and do something stupid like that. He keeps working methodically, pulling glass slivers out of my knuckles and dropping them into a steadily growing pile beside his boot. Every once in a while a soft mewl of pain escapes me which he ignores completely. My discomfort does not make him any more careful.

When he’s done, he stows the tweezers then points to my backpack. “Do you still have the alcohol in there that you had a few nights ago?”

What the hell? He searched through my backpack? “Yeah. Why?”

“Give it to me.”

He wants to drink now? Now? I mean I can’t exactly judge him… Also I’m not about to disobey a direct order from Mr. Badass Soldier Boy-Man over here and so I lean away and fish one handed in my backpack for the bottle of vodka. I’m only slightly hindered by the fact that he doesn’t let go of my other hand.

I unscrew the cap with my teeth and then pass it to him. But instead of taking a swig he leans over and pours the contents directly onto my bleeding again hand.

I cry out as the alcohol sizzles away any potential infection causing germs. “Son of a _bitch!”_

“It needs to be disinfected.” He schools me.

“I know! But _fuck!_ That burns.” You’d think I’d be used to pain by now, wouldn’t you?!

He just kneels in front of me, face turned up toward me, holding my wrist in one hand, the bottle of vodka in the other. 

“Give me that!” I point to the bottle. He passes it over wordlessly and I gulp some down hoping it will ease some of the pain that it also caused. 

It doesn’t, but the fire starts to fade anyway. He’s still holding on to my wrist. I tug cautiously and he releases it. He picks up the stained bandage and studies it. Apparently it’s too dirty because he throws it behind him, then looks around. His face stops on me. “Open your jacket.”

What? I blink rapidly. Why? What’s he gonna do? I don’t wanna open my jacket, and remove one layer of protection between me and him. He may have promised not to kill me but he never promised not to… do something else. Besides it’s cold enough out here to freeze the brass tits off a witch!

“Open your jacket!” he repeats in a dangerous growl and even though my brain screams at me not to, I jump to obey before he decides to do it himself. I pull down the zipper cautiously slowly, my hand shaking. When it’s open he reaches forward. I shrink back but he catches me by the front of my shirt bunching it up in his metal fist.

My hands grab desperately onto his wrist, my nervously damp fingers unable to find purchase on the slippery silver surface. “Please don’t…” I whisper in a strangled voice.

His face which had been resolutely fixed on my lower half, rises. He’s right in front of me, right in my face, only inches away. I try to see his eyes through the goggles but the are 100% reflective, not allowing even a glimpse through them, and all I can see is my own fright pinched and pointed little face staring back at me from both lenses. 

“What do you think I’m gonna do?” he asks, his warm breath as he speaks, wafting over me from those mouth slits in his mask.

“H-hurt me..?” I stutter, slightly distracted by the smell of cinnamon-mint that is washing over me with his every breath. I guess master assassins have to brush their teeth too.

The hand tangled in the front of my shirt releases me and comes up to lightly doodle a pattern on my bruised cheek. “I won’t hurt you.” His fingers are gentle, his voice flat and emotionless. I’m rather disinclined to believe him.

“Promise?”

His face is still pointing towards mine. His metal fingers leave my cheek. He holds it in front of my face, his pinky finger raised. My eyes widen and my jaw drops in absolute surprise. _Pinky promise!_

I want to imagine him smiling beneath that mask at the fact that he’s managed to shock me in this way, but even if I knew what his face looked like I think I’d still have a hard time imagining a smile on it.

I wrap my little finger carefully around his. He holds it for a few seconds then lets go. His fingers again reach for my shirt, picking up the bottom hem before he suddenly tears a long strip right off. 

“Hey!” I cry out in surprise, shock, and a fair bit of fear at the way his right bicep bulges beneath the material of his jacket.

He ignores me.

“My shirt!”

“I needed something to wrap your hand with.” He says simply.

“I don’t have that many others.” I argue. 

His face tilts up to mine and I can just picture the sardonic stare he’s leveling at me. Why should he care?!

“Fine.” I grumble. “But if I have to wear this to school and then get written up for a dress code violation because it’s like a millimeter above my midriff then I’m blaming you.”

Again I want to imagine that this brings him a laugh deep, deep, _deep_ inside but I can’t be sure.

He seems detached as he wraps the scrap of my shirt around my hand. When he finishes he reaches out and matter-of-factly closes and pulls up the zipper of my jacket again. 

I stare at him. What is up with him today? It’s almost like he… cares? But that’s impossible. Isn’t it? No one cares about me. Least of all unflappable, detached, and indifferent killing instruments.

“Thank you,” I say softly which garners no response from him. Instead he looks down at my forearm which is still bared by the pushed up sleeves of my shirt and coat. Slowly and carefully he places his fingers down one by one on the discolored fingerprint bruises my mom left earlier when she grabbed my arm too hard. 

He doesn’t apply pressure, just lets his own fingers rest there, likely calling out my bullshit before I can even rally to spout it. 

Something about this image tears at my heart. His hand, his brutally weaponized, freezing cold, solid metal hand, capable of inflicting so much hurt and damage simply by virtue of the material it’s made of which is only increased by the man it’s attached to, is holding my skinny little arm so gently, in the exact same ways and spots as my own mother’s hand did. He’s holding on to me with gentleness while my _own mother_ touched me with violence. I feel a lump rising in my throat. 

I can’t deal with this. I don’t know _how_ to deal with this. This guy has killed people; he kills people for a living. I’ve seen him do it! But for some reason he has decided to not only spare me but also to treat me with care. Why? What’s so special about _me?_ Nothing, is the answer. There’s nothing special about me. I’m fucked up beyond all recognition and I don’t deserve this type of kindness from anyone. Especially not a trigger happy, grenade launching, cyborg assassin.

I swallow hard. “Winter?”

He looks up at me, head tilting to one side. I can’t decide whether he likes my name for him, or hates it, or just tolerates it.

“Can you go? I’d… I’d like to be alone.” I ask this shyly, wondering if he’ll honor my request.

He seems to study me for an long, long time, his forehead creasing slightly. Then he nods and wordlessly stands up.

Suddenly a jolt of something unidentifiable flashes through me. “Winter, wait.”

He turns in the doorway, looking down at me, waiting, as I’d asked him to, for whatever I’m gonna say.

Trouble is I don’t know what I wanted to say. I was just suddenly inexplicably afraid that he was leaving me even though I fucking told him to. What if he takes it as me telling him to leave me alone forever? What if I never see him again? Why does that idea send spikes of pain through me?

“Will you… I mean… do you think you might have time to come back tomorrow?” I whisper shyly.

I see his shoulders tense and don’t know if it’s in a good surprised way or a bad surprised way. He stands there for a long minute, his scary masked face pointed resolutely down at me. Then he turns wordlessly away, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me.

What did that mean? 

Wait and see, I guess…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I ennjoy the mental images of that metal hand making pinky promises. Who knows why?   
> Lemme know what you think, if you want. Also if anyone has any sudden ideas of what you think might be cool or interesting if it happened in the story please do tell me. I'm always looking for ideas and even though I have the story mostly planned out in my head I'm very open to potential changes. In my last story I did that quite a bit, adding things and changing things around from my original plans because a treasured reader made a comment. So I'm very open to your ideas. So if you have ANYTHING please do share!  
> And if not then that's cool too. Thank you for reading anyway!


	7. A New Dawn, A New Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looooong chapter  
> TRIGGER WARNINGS for mentions and descriptions of abuse, fear, alcoholism, underage drinking, and general angst.  
> Enjoy.

The next day is uneventful. I don’t catch any signs of anyone tailing me, but then again I know he can do it completely silently. I’d long since started to suspect that he _let_ me catch glimpses of him that day for whatever reason. 

I add a new bruise to my ever changing collection because I was too slow to duck out of the way when my mother threw her empty mug at me when I didn’t read her mind that it was empty and I was therefore expected to refill it. To be fair, I was distracted by thoughts of the Winter Soldier. 

Miraculously the mug had not broken which would have ensured me a whole slew of other bruises, it just glanced off my temple and fell to the carpet leaving me vaguely dazed. I’d refilled the mug with coffee and brought her that and a can of beer. She always drinks the two together by the galleon during the day. No idea why she needs coffee because she doesn’t do anything that requires her being awake and caffeinated. Guess she doesn’t want to skip her shows…

She notices my wrapped fist and laughs maliciously at my clumsiness. It reminds me of the Winter Soldier wrapping it up and I must get an absent, glazed look in my eyes because she kicks me hard in the shin and yells at me for being an airhead.

Good Kate and Bad Kate are mostly silent, stewing in their own juices or something, probably ramping up for another earthshaking argument that’s on the horizon. 

After dinner I hide in my room. My father comes home and actually stays. His car is still here when I sneak out of the window, but I’ll bet my entire nonexistent allowance that he’ll be gone by the time I return in the morning.

I feel strange, in a weird indescribable way. I haven’t had a single drink today, nor have I taken any painkillers. I’d smoked a lot more to make up for the mild withdrawal symptoms and heavy restless anxiety that came with that decision, hanging out my open window so _she_ wouldn’t pick up on the stench of smoke.

It feels… interesting. Crappy on the one side because I miss the feelings it evokes and the numbing of pain, and because physically my body is full on craving something, but it also feels… not good exactly, but decidedly not too bad.

As I walk to the warehouse district I think back to when it had all first started. I had been 13. Honestly it was kind of a miracle that I’d waited that long; I mean I was surrounded by alcohol and drunk parents basically constantly since I was 6… But that had been the first time I had consumed enough alcohol to get drunk. I’d gotten beat up terribly by her for it, not because she’d particularly cared that I was smashed, but because I’d stolen one of my dad’s bottles of Johnny Walker to become so. He had noticed, had automatically blamed her, and had yelled at her and given her a black eye. She’d reciprocated in kind on me, going one step above and beyond, as usual and gifting me with not one but _two_ black eyes. Overachiever.

But what I had noticed, what had been miraculous was that while she was wailing on me I had not felt a thing. I had watched her fist coming right at my face over and over again. I had heard the sickening crunches and wet squelches of the blood that came from both her busted knuckles and my busted face. I had felt the shockwaves traveling through my skull from the impacts, but I had felt no pain! The alcohol had numbed my brain to it.

And that was enough of a reason to hook me. The numbing of the physical and emotional pain that alcohol provided me was enough. And even though the physical pain eventually came back the emotional pain continued to be greatly dulled. So I kept drinking.

And there I was before I knew it; dependant on the shit by the time I was 15 years old. At first I told myself that I wouldn’t get addicted. Then when my dependency and need started getting more obvious I tried to convince myself that I _wasn’t_ addicted. I just _wanted_ it. I didn’t _need_ it yet. When I felt like I _needed_ it I’d scale back. Then eventually I could no longer deny that my once casual habit of escapism had spiralled into a full blown addiction. But I didn’t care. Because the shitty reality was that being drunk, feeling that alcoholic high— and even coming down from it, hurt a hell of a lot less than being sober.

But right now, even as I feel the want, the _need_ singing through my veins I deny it. It’s a herculean effort and I’m literally sweating because of it, but I’m determined, at least for the moment to not give in.

I have five months of school left, give or take. Then I’ll graduate. And even if my future looks bleak and I very much may wind up living on the street for a while, I’d rather it be as a working individual saving up for a place to live, than as a bag lady saving up for her next drop.

I have no idea why this realization came about now of all times but I suspect it has something to do with Winter, though I can’t grasp in what correlation.

I wonder if he’ll come back today or if I insulted him yesterday. I have a hard time picturing anything penetrating through that unflinching mental armor of his deep enough to insult him, but sometimes I get the feeling that it’s all just a façade…

I make a quick pitstop then head to the roof. I smoke while I sit up there, though I’m vigilant and ready to stab out the cigarette as soon as he appears; if he appears. While I sit there I wonder again why the smoking bothers him so much. It’s not like it’s a capital offence. You know, like _murder!_ Or _assassination!_

He doesn’t show up. 

I sit and listen to the hours tick by on my wristwatch, chain smoking and watching the moon’s slow arc through the sky. When it’s low on the horizon, and the sun is starting to peek out over on the opposite side I determine that he’s not coming and pack up my things, disappointment coursing through me.

I make my way home dejectedly with a hard lump lodged firmly in my throat, disposing of the burger I’d brought for him in a garbage can along the way. 

I was right; my dad has disappeared again by the time I roll in at 6:30 in the am. It’s Saturday and so I’m required to provide breakfast and lunch as well as dinner for her. I’m also expected to deep clean the house as I am every weekend, though she graciously permits me to do so over two days instead of expecting me to manage it all in one. Her idea of cleaning includes, vacuuming, washing the windows, mopping the tile and hardwood floors, dusting every available surface, scrubbing the bathrooms until they sparkle, and just generally tidying up. She inspects everything, one of the few times I actually see her heave herself out of the couch cushions, and woe betide me if she finds so much as a speck of dust or a smudged fingerprint remaining. It means a beating. And she always finds something.

I dread the vacuuming most because it requires moving around her in slow circles each one bringing me closer to her nest and more within the reach of her flying fists. She hates the vacuuming too because our antiquated vacuum is ear-splitting and she spends the entire time loudly cussing me out at a volume that rivals that of the dirt sucking machine itself. She doesn’t usually punish me for the noise though which is something, since I often get smacked for such infractions as breathing too loud or my footsteps being to heavy.

I do the laundry on weekends too, normally spending Saturday on the washing and drying, and Sunday on folding and ironing. I lament the loss of one of my few shirts, debating throwing it out, but then I don’t because _he_ touched it. Not because it now holds some insane, mushy sentimental value or something, but because it’s proof that he exists. That I didn’t imagine him. I think…

  
Wishful thinking, or perhaps insanity has me going back again, after purchasing another burger. My legs are shaky and my head hurts, as does my stomach. My muscles keep cramping in random places and my nose is like a runny faucet. I feel like I may be coming down with something. In reality though I know it’s the withdrawal symptoms as the last residues of booze work their way out of my system leaving it shell shocked and screaming for more. I know it only gets worse from here on out and that thought alone almost has me digging out my trusty fake ID and detouring into the liquor store. Really I should have left the thing at home, but I guess I’m not that smart. Somehow, through a sheer force of will I had no idea I had, I manage to resist.

I wrap myself up in my blanket, shivering violently. My teeth chatter with the force of a jackhammer. Even my space heater does little to warm me. Eventually though I think my body gets numb. I don’t actually feel less cold but I stop shivering. I just sit. 

I hear him before I see him. He appears from the darkness as if it is a part of him and he is just shrugged that part off as one might shrug off a coat. 

I swallow hard, peeking up at him from within my blanket wrapper. “Hi..?” my voice is tiny and tentative.

He towers over me, looking; just looking. I fidget anxiously. Is he mad? Why would he be mad? I didn’t do anything? Though in my experiences I rarely do anything and people still get mad at me…

“I brought you something.” His gravelly voice breaks the silence like the low rumble of an airplane flying too deep.

I look up at him, equal parts apprehension and surprise flickering through my body and across my face. He’s brought me something? What? A knuckle sandwich? A gun with a single bullet that has my name on it in the chamber? A milkshake? The sensation of questioning my sanity? What?

He tosses something down into my wool covered lap. Something soft. I pick it up gingerly, examining it. When I realize what it is my eyes fly up to his.

“To replace the one I ripped.”

It’s a shirt. Long sleeves. Form fitting. Modest neckline. Soft, dark red cotton. I swallow hard. How absolutely considerate of him! And I think that without the slightest hint of sarcasm!

“Did you buy this?” I ask not looking up at him, my fingers stroking over the carefully stitched neck hem. 

“No.” he answers and his voice sounds different, lighter somehow, more open. Almost as if he’s speaking through a smile…

I look up at him. All I see of his face: his forehead, is giving nothing away as to what might be lurking beneath that mask. I wonder if he was smiling at my quite frankly ridiculous question as to his honorability in making legitimate purchases. My own thieving little ass can’t judge him for this and so I mutter “Thank you,” looking back down at the shirt.

He says nothing but sinks down into a crouch. 

“I brought you something too.”

His head tilts in question and I withdraw the bag with the burger from beneath the blanket. He accepts it without question, and without a word. cups the greasy brown paper bag with the flesh hand beneath it and uses his metal fingers to spread the top open and peer inside. “You didn’t bring anything for yourself?”

“I already ate.” It’s a lie and as soon as I tell it I know that he knows that too. But he shocks me by not calling me out on my bullshit and letting me get away with it. My stomach is tossing so much I don’t think I could eat even if I wanted to.

He turns his back to me again, removes his mask, and eats.

I lean back against the wall closing my eyes so I’m less tempted to try to sneak a peek at his face. “Where were you yesterday?”

“Busy.”

“I waited for you.”

Silence. Sounds of chewing. What was I expecting? An apology? Hah. Not likely. Not that he’d owe me one anyway. I guess assassination-ing is busy work and doesn’t run on a 9-5 schedule; a.m. or p.m.

I don’t know what possesses me to ask this next question but it tumbles from my lips and by the time I realize the stupidity of asking it, it’s too late to call it back. “How many people have you killed?”

I open my eyes nervously, just in time to watch his back stiffen. I wonder if he’s gonna be pissed at that question or if he’s just gonna ignore me again.

Neither. 

“I don’t know…” his gruff voice is more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it before. I wonder how he could possibly _not_ know? Did he lose count? How can you lose count of something like that; how many people have died through your hand?! Is he that hard hearted and cold blooded? Can you become desensitized to murder?

“Many?”

“Yes.” There’s a strange infraction to his voice that I can’t place, but it’s the most emotion I’ve ever heard in it at once.

He decides that we’ve exhausted this topic because he replaces his mask and turns around. In his hand is about a third of unfinished burger. 

He tries to pass it to me.

I shake my head.

He waves it in my face.

I shake my head again, shrinking in on myself.

“Eat it!” he says in a deep threatening voice.

I cave under that intimidating timbre and reach out to take the food from his hand. Thank god I’m not a germaphobe who minds that he’s bitten this because I wouldn’t put it past him to hold me down and physically stuff the thing down my throat.

I nibble slowly on the still warm bun. I can feel his eyes on me but thankfully he doesn’t rush me. I finish the thing and then sit taking deep breaths trying to calm my stomach which is already churning from the effects of the alcohol withdrawal, and is now also rebelling against the unfamiliar notion of having actual solid food inside it.

I think I might barf.

He shifts closer to me suddenly and when I look at him warily he motions me closer with his silver fingers. I know that he wants to have a look at my face, probably to check out the severity of the new bruise and so I lean forward slowly, placing my chin in his metal hand, even though my natural instincts warn me very much against it, knowing he could easily crush my jaw between those soldered appendages.

He’s gentle though as he always is when he holds my face in his palms. His flesh hand carefully pushes back the curls of my hair that cover the new bruise on my temple so he can see it better. The gentle action makes my heart squeeze.

No, no actually that’s not my heart that’s squeezing; it’s my stomach. I can feel the few bites of burger reversing their path and travelling back up accompanied by what feels like a river of bile. And I’m about to vomit it all over him!

I try to pull and turn away but his fingers tighten without hurting me, keeping me in place. I can’t tell him to let go because my lips are clamped tightly shut keeping in the impending, unstoppable tide of puke. Unable to warn him, or get away I resort to the only other option available to me which is also the most deadly stupid and foolhardy thing I could have ever done and probably ever did. I shove him as hard as I can in the chest.

I think it’s the surprise of my attack that came out of nowhere, plus the fact that he’s crouching balancing on the balls of his feet, but he actually falls backwards onto his _ass_ et when my palms smack against his leather covered pectorals. 

He’s back on his feet in a flash, towering over me, exuding so much potent danger and powerful menace that I quite forget my need to vomit.

All in the span of about two seconds of my pushing him his flesh hand tangles painfully and cruelly in my hair while his metal hand curls into a tight fist, cocking back, preparing to bash me in the face.

Pure terror lights up my insides, reigniting the fuse behind my upchuck reflex. Even more unable to move now than I was earlier with him holding my hair in such a tight, unforgiving grip, my stomach has no other option than to expel its meager contents directly over his shoes.

He freezes. I hang miserably in his hold by my curls, waiting with pure dread and fear for his retaliation at puking over him, even as I continue to dry heave, bile washing the inside of my mouth.

His hand in my hair loosens. I wince in weak horror awaiting a slap or a punch or a kick, but instead I feel his fingertips very, very lightly ghosting over the back of my head.

Suddenly too weak to hold myself upright I fall forwards until my clammy forehead rests against his upper thigh. I feel the muscles tighten there for a second but I can’t muster up the will to move even though I realize how incredibly inappropriate this is and how scared I should be not only that I’m using his lethal body as headrest, but also at the fact that he might get the wrong idea from this compromising position; my face practically buried in his crotch…

“Sorry…” I whisper my voice scratchy.

He bends down taking hold of me by my shoulders and pushing me back. I flop against the wall weakly, my head lolling to the side.

The Winter Soldier crouches down in front of me again taking my chin between his fingers and turning it toward him. He picks up my blanket and uses the corner to wipe the vomit smears around my mouth away.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks 

“Nothing. Sick.”

His face shifts up to me. I get the impression that it would be just as inscrutable without the coverings as it is with them. “You threw up all over my shoes, you owe me an honest answer.”

I wish I was brave enough to be snarky and tell him that I don’t owe him sweet fuck-all but I’m still too intimidated by him. “Withdrawal.” I mumble shame coloring my cheeks. “From alcohol.”

He doesn’t say any more just sits back watching me in silence. At least I think he’s watching me, he could be napping behind those goggles for all I know.

My tired brain is whirring all over the place. It's having trouble latching on to one single thought. Why is he helping me? What is his deal? Why is he more machine then man one moment and the next he actually seems to care? Why do I get the sense that everything he does is tinged with regret but I don’t feel like he regrets the truly regrettable things? Like the fecking murder!!! Why does it seem like there’s an ocean inside him but he tries to scale it back, to fit the full volume off all of that water into a puddle? Why won’t he show feelings? Does he have them? I think he does. But he forces them down, forces everything down. God, he’s just… a riddle… wrapped in an enigma… wrapped in a… a… a taco… Fuck! I dunno. 

And why does he fascinate me so damn much? Why am I so drawn to him at the same time as I’m terrified of him?

I figure it out in the early morning hours. Not all of it, or any of him, but myself. I’m drawn to the parts that he tries to hide; those snippets of real feeling, of humanity that sometimes break through the robotic veneer. I’m afraid of the rest. Of everything on the surface; the machine, the strength, the tightly leashed power, that unbreakable control, the ability to kill without a care. That’s what I’m afraid of. Deadly afraid. But somehow… those little pieces of who I think he maybe is beneath that keep me coming back, keep me looking over my shoulder hoping that maybe he’s following me again…

I stand up pressing my back into the wall to keep myself steady and test if I can walk without falling flat on my face. My world tips precariously on its axis but holds steady enough that I don’t fall right back down again.

The Winter Soldier’s masked face has followed my movements, his brow furrowed slightly in question.

I point one still slightly shaky hand to the horizon. “It’s the sunrise.” I say, my voice croaky.

He turns his head to look at the wash of pastel orange in the sky.

I wrap my blanket around my shoulders like a cape and totter off towards the edge of the roof to get a better view. I’m surprised when movement behind me indicates that he’s following me. Probably thinks I’m gonna topple right over the edge of the roof, and thinks he needs to grab hold of me to save me. Or maybe he plans to push me, solve the problem that is me in one go… because clearly I am a problem. To everyone I meet!

I stop well away from the edge of the roof, just to be safe. I haven’t actually seen a sunrise in a long time. Usually it happens in those few precious hours in which I can actually sleep. But it’s my favourite time of the day. For some reason the sunrise means peace to me even though it signals the start of another unpeaceful day and the end of the freedom that I find at night. I’ve never been able to explain it, even to myself, but I feel calmest at sunrise; like I actually have possibilities. And a future…

The Winter Soldier stands off to my left. I can feel his gaze on my face but I can’t tear my eyes away from the glowing ball of orange that rises slowly into the sky, surrounded by washes of pink and red and yellow and purple. I wish I had my camera. I need to photograph some sunrises; I need to capture this beauty forever and maybe then I can also capture that feeling of hope, of potential…

Doubtful.

When the warm glow finally fades into the buttery yellow of early morning light I turn to Winter. He’s watching me still and I squirm under the force of that gaze that I can’t see but can feel, and that I have no idea what it could possibly mean.

“I should go…”

No reaction.

“Thanks for the shirt…”

Nothing.

“Um… sorry again for… puking on your shoes.”

Silence.

Is he mad at me? “Are you mad?”

More silence. Then: “No.” just that single word, and he’s still staring at me. 

“Ok, then. Good. So I’m… I’m gonna go. I… maybe I’ll see you tonight… if you’re not… busy again?” busy murdering more people. _Why_ exactly am I hoping I’ll see him again tonight? Because he hasn’t murdered me yet? That could change at the snap of a finger as he very clearly showed me, being so ready to punch my lights out as revenge for pushing him. I should be afraid of him; very, very afraid. And I _am._ Just probably not in the way I should be…

I turn away walking unsteadily to where I’d stashed my backpack. I can feel his eyes boring into my back.

“I didn’t mean it.”

I freeze. Didn’t mean what? His promises? He _is_ going to hurt me? Kill me?

“Earlier when you pushed me and I reacted. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wouldn’t have hit you. It was an instinctive reaction. It’s how I was trained. But I stopped myself and I wouldn’t have done it even if you hadn’t thrown up on me when you did.”

Oh. I look cautiously back at him. This is the most words he’s ever said to me in one go. I could swear that I again hear the slightest hint of a smile in his voice. But that damn mask!

Still it's reassuring somehow what he says, especially since I’d just been thinking about that moment too. “Okay…” I say softly.

He nods at me.

Slightly disoriented I collect my things and head for the door. There I turn back for one last look at him; I’m still sure that every time I leave him will be the last time I see him. I’m still not 100% sure that he really even exists. That doubt is underscored again when I turn back and find the roof empty. Like he’s evaporated into thin air. I look down at the red shirt in my hands. Proof? Of what? Him? Or of my slowly deteriorating mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for readinggggg! 💕💕


	8. An Arm or A Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any TRIGGER WARNINGS i can think of.   
> Hope you like it.  
> Also yea, i do suck at titles, thank you for noticing. 😝

He walks. Slowly through the streets though he knows he can't be seen. It’s late. Early. Too late. Too early. He should have been back hours ago. There will be consequences for this. He sticks to the shadows feeling dread thumping through him as he pictures what is in store for him. 

When he gets to where he hid the motorbike he glances around as always; watchful, before he kicks it into life, the loud roar rattling his bones. The surge of power he feels when he straddles the machine is the same but somehow different than the one he feels when he fires a gun. He likes this sense of power; the one brought on by the bike. He hates the ones the guns bring with them.

As he flies down the road he thinks. It’s forbidden by itself, he knows it; thinking. He has no business thinking; having thoughts that differ from the hive mind’s they force into his head. The only thoughts he is allowed to have pertain directly to the mission. And even then they’re supposed to be thoughts placed in his head by his handlers.

But it’s getting harder and harder now to shove them down; the thoughts. And the emotions too; so much harder. He tries telling himself that he doesn’t know why that is but it’s a lie. It's because of her. She makes him feel things. Things he’d long since buried. Feelings that evoke other feelings and vague memories.

He lets himself dwell on them more often now, at night when he is lying in the upright Cryostasis chamber his whole body singing with the subdued pain of his containment. It’s not as bad as the pain from the punishments or from the mind wipes, but it still hurts. But now he lets himself think about whatever feelings and emotions she stirred up in him. And what he finds is disappointing and liberating at the same time.

He doesn’t remember specific things, places, people. But he remembers feelings. When he feels angry at the woman who beats her he remembered feeling angry before when someone he knew got beaten up. When he feels regretful for scaring her he remembers feeling regret for hurting someone else. When she smiles he remembers feelings of lightness that came from… what? He doesn’t remember and it is enough to almost make him go crazy. The feeling of a giant hole in his brain has never been more intense.

But at the same time it is liberating because this is proof… proof that he was not always this way, that he once used to be capable of having emotions, once was allowed to feel freely. For so long now he had believed that he was always like this, a machine that wasn’t supposed to feel; wasn’t allowed to. He’s been told for so long that this was who he was, how he was made; created. To be an unthinking, obedient human robot. The Fist. Their Fist. A fist isn’t a brain; it doesn’t think or feel. It just punches at the command of the brain. But this proves that it’s not true. Even if he was reengineered to be this way he wasn’t created for it. At least not solely.

But then the handlers come to take him out of Cryo, and then the generals come to give him his newest mission. And whatever he felt at night goes away. Because even if he wasn’t created for this, this is what he is now. And there’s no way to change it, no getting out. He belongs to them, he _is_ them. Even if he is the fist and they are the brain he is still a part of the same body. Theirs. And he will always be theirs. Because they own him; his past, his present, his future. They own his memories. And even if he is rediscovering his feelings there is no way they will let him find the memories again. If they discover the emotions he's been experiencing they’ll take those away too and leave him empty again. And he dreads the emptiness almost as much as he craves it. Because the emptiness at least means the absence of pain… but also the absence of being human. Which he knows he is, even if they attempt to strip the humanity from him and make him as much of a machine as his left arm. In a way he thinks he is their arm. He is the same to them as the arm is to him. They added the arm to him, and added him to their operations. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, he wasn’t born with this arm and he wasn’t born to be theirs. But here he is anyway.

He goes on the missions telling himself that he will not go find her, will not look for her, will not follow her. Yesterday he actually succeeded. After completion of his mission he headed back to base the way he had been ordered to. And the wipe had been a hundred times worse.

He had lain there, strapped into the chair, stripped of his shirt, the machinery latched firmly onto his face, and had felt the jolts of electricity searing into his brain, burning away the details of the night’s mission. And because he had told them everything about that night there had been nothing to hold on to through the pain that he would remember afterwards. And it had been worse. So much worse.

And so tonight he had gone back. Even though he knew he shouldn’t for his sake and hers. But he felt protective over her somehow. Another feeling that is old and familiar. There had been someone else once who he had wanted to protect. And he can’t help but think that he failed to protect this person. And this suspicion makes him feel something else: determination to not fail again. 

She’s so sad, so broken, and not just her face and body. Her spirit… like she’s given up long ago. Like him. He doesn’t want her to be like him. She may still have something left to live for while he… all he has are the missions, the pain, the mind wipes, and the ghosts of his past; always hovering, never within reach. 

He remembers how sick she was tonight, how sick she looked. He could sense it all around her, his finely tuned enhanced senses being able to tell the extent from the moment he had stepped out onto the roof. He had been able to smell her sweat as he body worked to rid itself of whatever toxins were inside her by sweating them out. He had heard her elevated and irregular, erratic heartbeat and her quick uneven breaths. When he touched her he had felt the clamminess of her skin, cool on the surface but burning up beneath. And he had seen it of course. Her face had been ashen, the always present dark circles under her eyes so pronounced that at first he had thought they were fresh bruises. 

He had made her eat hoping that it would give her back some small measure of strength but instead it had only made her sicker. He had been surprised when she leaned against him, subconsciously searching for strength in her weakened state and being unafraid enough to seek it from him even though she was definitely still afraid of him.

He had wanted nothing more than to have the means and knowledge to take care of her through her sickness.

He thought he remembered someone else whom he had taken care of when the person was sick but try as he might he could not remember who the person was, or even who he had been back then. But he must have been better? If he was willingly taking care of someone… 

Then he remembers how quickly he had reacted with violence, ready to hit her because she had lashed out at him. The memory makes him shudder, the idea that he had almost added to her pain again. The bruises he’d left around her throat after the first time still haunt him sometimes. And he thinks that he really isn’t that good, even below who they have made him into. Because with her he doesn’t feel like he’s theirs. But he still reacted the way they would want him to. So maybe who he is and who he was aren’t that different. And maybe he was always bad.

It shouldn’t matter, they wouldn’t want him to dwell on it. But it matters. And he can’t decide if he wants it to or not, if he _should_ want it to or not. And this indecision is cleaving his brain in two. What thoughts are theirs; what thoughts are his own? Is there a difference? Was there ever? Should there be? 

Before his thoughts; his prohibited thoughts, cause any more turmoil or an accident, be makes a quick stop in an empty truck station. It’s a risk but he has to clean her vomit off his shoes otherwise they will ask questions. While he is wiping off his boots he sees a colorful flyer hanging beside the broken door of the tiny bathroom. He squints his eyes to read the words, wondering dimly why he should care. The flyer announces a firework display to be held in the city in a week’s time. Unbidden but almost strangely naturally the thought rises that he would like to share this information with her. She likes taking pictures. He’s sure she would like to take pictures of fireworks. 

He quenches the thought. It has no business in his head. Why should he think or care about what she likes?! Why would he even notice?! A new thought intrudes. Because he wants to see her smile, wants to make her smile. He wants to lift some of that sadness from her even momentarily, the way she somehow lifts it from him. But it doesn’t matter. The fireworks are on the opposite side of the city to where her building is. And why should she want to go anywhere he told her to? She’s much too scared of him anyway. There is no point, and those thoughts are not only forbidden, they are also useless. 

But still when he is finished cleaning his shoes and shoves his way out of the bathroom his hand, at the last second reaches out and tears the flyer off the wall, folds it into a small square, and tucks it into one of his numerous pockets. He leaves undetected, swings himself back onto the bike and shoots off again, due north, back to them and towards more pain and forgetting. But maybe something else, he thinks, as he flies down the empty road, the wind in his hair, and blowing into the breathing slits of the mask, tasting like impending snow.

He dreamed again. For the first time in as long as he can remember he dreamed. While he was in Cryo last night, while his body couldn’t decide if the pain he felt from the chamber was freezing cold or burning hot, he had fallen into the light surface semi-sleep that is all he’s afforded now. But then he had seen her face. That had been all, though it had been so much more than the empty blackness he usually sees during his resting state. Her face, swimming and shimmering behind his closed eyelids, just as he remembered it, jjst as it was, but without bruises. 

When he had opened his eyes he had somehow felt more energized than he normally felt after a day filled with pain. He had felt more alive, like his body had literally caught on fire even as the ice from the temporary Cryostasis had melted off him. And it was because of her. 

He doesn’t understand it. But he never wants it to go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, writing Bucky is harrrrrd.   
> I hope i do it well.  
> Thanks for reading.   
> Side note: I want to punch HYDRA!


	9. Good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loooing chapter ahead again.  
> biiiig TRIGGER WARNINGS for abuse!  
> But also more interesting interactions between our two heroes.

I stumble into view of my house. As always the white walls and the wrought iron gate fill me with the deepest loathing possible to be felt by a human being. I hate this place. I hate it! Loath it with every fibre of my being. I would gladly burn the entire place to the ground and dance naked around the pyre!

I’m heading down the walkway when the door swings open. I freeze midstride, cold fear shooting through me. My mother stands in the doorway. Her bathrobe, slippers, messy hair and bleary eyes tell me that she likely just woke up. 

“Where the hell are you coming from at all hours of the morning, you trash? Where have you been, huh?”

I think fast. “Nowhere, mom. I’m sorry. We’re out of eggs so I was running to the store to buy some for your breakfast, but I forgot to bring money and so I had to turn back.”

I hold my breath while she regards me with beady eyes trying to determine whether or not to believe me. She has no reason not to but she may decide to beat me anyways just because she feels like it. It all depends on her mood.

She opens the door wider and waves me inside. As I slink past her she cuffs me on the back of the head. “Idiot. Make sure you check the fridge next time. Don’t make me wait for my breakfast. You’re lucky I still have to take a shower! Get the money and then make sure you run. I’m gonna be hungry when I come down.”

“Yes, mom. Of course.” I breathe a silent sigh of relief. She bought it! I can’t believe she bought it. That clout to the head hurt but not nearly as much as whatever else she might have done if I hadn’t lucked out and gotten one of her more benign moods today. 

She goes upstairs and I go to the kitchen. She’ll never know that I never went to the store again; she’ll likely already have forgotten the whole exchange by the time she steps into the shower.

I wrench open the fridge door and fish out three eggs from the still almost completely full carton.

That night I don’t go out. I can’t. I physically cannot move from my bed. My whole body is shaking violently flashing alternatingly hot and cold. I’m drenched in sweat even as I shiver. My stomach is cramping like Satan himself is tearing his way out of my guts. My head is splitting and any light hurts my eyes. I somehow managed to grab a bucket and drag it beside my bed and I throw up into it at regular intervals.

The shakes hit shortly after I’d served my mother lunch. I dragged myself up the stairs knowing that I needed to lie down and no other thought in my head than my bed. I can hear her downstairs screaming for me but my body is so focused on one thing and one thing only that I can’t comprehend what her yelling might mean and the consequences it could bring.

She comes up to my room. I don’t even have the energy to feel afraid when I see her silhouette hulking in my doorway. She comes closer. I moan softly and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Kate, are you sick?”

My eyes fly open even though the dim lights bore into my eyeballs with a toothpick. She sounds almost… concerned?! And she hasn’t called me Kate in years, only Katherine. Am I dreaming? Does alcohol withdrawal cause hallucinations on top of everything else?

She lowers herself onto the corner of my bed and pushes the hair stuck to my sweaty face away with her hand before she rests the back of it on my forehead.

“You’re burning up. Have you been throwing up?” She glances to the side and sees the bucket.

I can only lie there dumbly and stare. Who is this pod person that is masquerading as my mother? She’s acted more motherly in the last ten seconds than she has in the last ten years.

“Was it something you ate?”

I want to reply that no I’m sure it wasn’t since she never let’s me actually eat anything, but I imagine the results such a snarky retort would bring and I shiver. I shrug in answer.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

She leaves. I’m left staring after her, sure that I imagined all of that, and sure that I will be proven right in that suspicion when she never returns with that promised tea.

But she does. Twenty minutes later she walks back in with a huge mug of chamomile tea. I didn’t know she even knew how to work the stove even if it was just to boil water. But then I realize she must have because once upon a time she used to cook, before she demoted me from daughter to personal slave. I guess I’d assumed she’d forgotten what those turny knobs on the heaty thing did…

She places the mug on my bedside table then strokes her fingers quite gently over my face. I can’t help but flinch, not used to kind touches from her, only violent and painful ones.

Some kind of shadow passes through her eyes when she sees my instinctive recoil. “Don’t worry about the laundry. I’ll finish it.” And she leaves.

I’m left staring at the door for several long minutes, my general misery quite forgotten in the face of the events that just transpired. That couldn’t have been real, could it?! I _must_ have imagined that. Didn’t I?

My eyes find the mug of tea standing on my bedside table, steam curling gently towards the ceiling. Laboriously I push myself up to sitting and wrap my freezing cold and shaking fingers around the warmth of the mug. Maybe it’s poisoned?

I find I don’t particularly care because even a slow and painful death from poison would be preferable to _this!_ Although this too could be described as a slow and painful death from poison. I have no idea if I’m actually dying. It feels like it.

I sip the tea in tiny little swallows, so my cramping stomach doesn’t send it right back up again. It actually calms the nausea somewhat though it does nothing for the shaking and shuddering.

I drop back down onto the pillows, where I’m not sure if I pass out or if I fall asleep. But either way blessed unconsciousness takes me.

  
I awake when my alarm rings at 7:00 the next morning. The first thing I wonder is if that whole interaction with my mom yesterday was a dream. My bleary eyes find the empty mug on my nightstand. Guess not. Though I could have made the tea for myself and then just made up the part where she was the one who brought it to me because I’m so starved for maternal love and affection. How pathetic would that be?!

I drag myself out of bed. I need to go to school. I still feel like shit warmed over but I know I need to go to school because, potential hallucination or not, skipping is not going to go over well. 

She’s still asleep as she always is at this time and so I leave after rinsing the mug out in the sink, and turning on the coffee maker for her as I do every morning so she has to do the barest minimum in the hours she’s forced to fend for herself while I reluctantly pursue secondary education. 

I drag myself to school, my steps lagging. I’m over half an hour late because I frequently have to rest or else my legs would give out. I don’t even acknowledge Mr. Smythe and just slump to my desk before collapsing into it and putting my forehead down on the dirty faux wood surface.

I hear his patented walrus _harrumph_ but mercifully he leaves me be. I’m absently aware of the fact that I probably smell ghastly. I spent all night wrapped in my blankets which this morning were soaked through with sweat, and I didn’t take a shower this morning. I must be pretty rank. There’s a subdued, secret scraping of desks and chairs against the floor as the people closest to me try desperately to vacate my general vicinity. I know I should be embarrassed but I’m too miserable to care.

The period drags by. When the bell finally rings, sending fissures of pain like shards of glass chasing through my sore head, I move to heft myself from my seat but Mr. Smythe's nasally voice holds me back. “One moment please, Ms. Starling.”

I flop back into the chair, propping my elbows on the desk and digging the heels of my hands into my eyeballs as I wait for him to come yell at me, and he waits for the classroom to clear before he can yell at me sufficiently.

He drops into the chair next to mine with all the grace of a stampeding rhinoceros. “Are you feeling unwell, Ms. Starling?”

Surprise lifts my head out of my hands to look at him. Has the world gone topsy-turvy? Why is everyone suddenly being so nice to me? 

He leans forward, his face gentle. He looks like a cuddly bulldog like this. I’ve never seen him look at me like that before. I also have to give him credit for willingly placing himself within smelling distance of the cloud of stench I’m sure I exude. “You look sick.”

“Stomach flu.” I croak.

“Maybe you should go home.”

“Can’t…”

“Then you should at least go down to the nurse. I’ll write you a pass for your lessons.”

I stare at his back as he lumbers back to his desk at the front of the class to write me said pass. Has the world been taken over by aliens since yesterday? Everyone’s acting so out of character. First my mom, now Mr. Smythe…

I trundle down to the nurse’s office as instructed, almost toppling down several flights of stairs. The pass is clutched tightly in my fist and I half consider having it framed as proof that my English teacher has a heart.

The nurse takes one look at me and doesn’t even bother to grill me about my maladies to discover if I’m faking to get out of class. I’m so obviously not. She takes the pass to deliver it to the office so they won’t penalize me for missed lessons and wordlessly tucks me into the little cot that stands in the corner. She piles every blanket she can find on top of me, plus some jackets from the lost and found because I’m still shivering. Then she retreats back to her desk.

My head lolls listlessly to the side, my eyes looking out the window without really seeing anything. I think back to my mom from last night. I’m still not entirely convinced that I didn’t hallucinate her… But I wonder… if this becomes a new norm, if she had some miraculous epiphany about how she’s been treating me and decided to be better, would I forgive her? I don’t know. I want to; I want a mother again, a real mother. _My_ mother, the way she used to be. But it might be too little too late. It’s been so long now and I was still so young when it started that I don’t really even remember loving her; _really_ loving her. I did love her in some way for years still, even after the abuse started. It was instinctive; children love their mothers, but eventually that love turned to hate. And I can honestly say that. I hate her! If someone held a gun to her head and threatened me to give up all of my secrets plus the keys to Fort Knox or else they’d shoot her, I would laugh and tell them to shoot twice. Once from them and once from me!

My head feels muddy but something captures my attention. I blink a few times until my brain catches up to what my eyes are seeing. It’s blurry but there’s a dark shape standing across the way, on the roof of the building opposite. I can feel my brain shutting down as it prepares to go to sleep or pass out again and I fight desperately to stay conscious. I’m losing the battle though. But I need to know; it’s imperative for some reason that I determine for sure if this is another crow infestation or if it’s what I think it is. What, in some far flung corner of my mind, I hope it is: the Winter Soldier watching over me. Like a dark guardian angel of death.

  
When I wake up I feel marginally better. Enough that I manage to walk home in one go without having to rest every ten meters. My head still feels heavy and foggy but I’m no longer nauseous, and my stomach isn’t cramping, and I’m no longer cold and shaking so violently.

At home I manage to do all my chores though it’s a lackluster job at best; I’ll make up for it tomorrow. I heat up some leftovers for her dinner not caring if I get a smack for it. She’ll eat what I put in front of her and she’ll like it!

She ignored me from the moment I walked in which leaves me feeling unsure again about whether the caring mother from last night was real. On the one hand she hasn’t made a reappearance, but on the other hand neither has the mother I’m so used to now. She hasn’t called me a single name, or yelled at me, or taken a swipe at me, or anything…

I head upstairs after I finish the dishes hoping to maybe actually grab a little catnap. I want to go back out tonight and I want to be moderately awake.

I lie in bed dozing absently when the door bell rings. I raise my head groggily but then let it fall back down. Our doorbell rarely rings but when it does I’m not permitted to answer it. So… not my problem.

I’m rudely ripped from my slumber by my door banging open. I startle and sit bolt upright which makes my head spin and sets the room lurching around me. Through my fuzzy vision I see three instances of my mother stomping towards me.

Oh shit!

She storms toward me, grabs me by the arm and yanks me upwards. Easy to do since I’m basically a floppy biscuit.

She leans directly into my face, the stench of stale beer on her breath enough to reawaken my nausea with a vengeance. “I’ve just had a visitor.”

Huh?

“Your art teacher popped by. He just left.” 

_Oh! Shit!!!_

“He’s very concerned about you.”

Yea, I’ll bet he is. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“He wasn’t here to see _you.”_ Her fingers tighten and I know I’ll have more bruises on my upper arm later.

“Apparently you spent all day today in the nurse’s office. Slacking!”

“I felt super sick, mom…” I try desperately, my voice tiny.

 _“No!”_ she shrieks slapping me hard across the face, her claws extended. I can feel her sharp, too long nails raking over my cheek. “He also was very concerned about you incessant clumsiness.”

I close my eyes. God, I’m so dead. Mr. B. what the hell were you thinking?!

“I think you’ve been saying a bit too much around your friend. Have you been screwing him? Is that when your tongue loosens?”

I almost gag in revulsion. It’s actually amazing how little she thinks of me! “Mom, I swear I haven’t told him anything.” I whine in a pitiful little voice. “And I’d never sleep with him. He’s my teacher!”

“Hah!” she screeches. “Don’t make me laugh. You sleep with anything that walks, you little slut.”

Her fingers close around my neck, squeezing hard. I sputter. “You will keep your damn mouth closed do you understand me?!”

“Yes, mom.” I choke. 

“And you’re going to drop that nosy, meddling teacher’s class!”

Panic spreads through me. I can’t drop photography. It’s the only class that makes school even somewhat bearable! “I can’t, mom.” I gasp desperately. “Our classes are fixed. If I drop it now I’ll fail it and that’ll go on my transcript and mess up my GPA…” I explain desperately, trying to appeal to this strange sense of vanity she has about me not embarrassing her with my school performance.

She screams in wordless frustration and I shrink from her. Her fingers tighten even further cutting off my airway completely. She shakes me hard. “You stupid, stupid little bitch! You can’t do anything right, can you?! You tell that teacher to leave you alone! If I ever see him on our doorstep again I’ll throw you right out after him, do you understand me?! You’ll pay!!!”

Black squiggles are invading my vision. I try to nod to show my understanding but I’m not sure if it works. I paw desperately at her hand which only infuriates her. She removes one hand and punches me straight in the nose. As I fly backwards, smashing into the wall behind me, she releases me then spins and marches from my room, slamming the door behind her. 

I collapse backwards onto my bed, my hand coming up to my face. I can’t see anything. The residual blackness from being half asphyxiated is combined with the stars bursting in front of my eyes from the punch I just took. My ears are clanging like a fire bell. Pain crackles through my skull, emanating from my nose. I bring my hand up to gently probe the damaged area and it comes away bloody.

Great. I pinch my nose shut and lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes as I try to stem the bleeding.

What on earth was Mr. Burnett thinking? Why would he turn up here like this? He knows what she’s like. More than anyone else he knows. So why would he turn up here and ask to speak to her directly? If he heard about my illness from one of the other teachers and wanted to check on me then why didn’t he make up some excuse to actually check on _me?_

I’m so confused. And pissed. I’m seriously pissed. At him. At her. At me. At my imaginary guardian angel of death. If he’s really guarding me then why does he never do any actual guarding? Probably because he’s not actually there the way I want to imagine he is. Or because he doesn’t care. Or both. Probably both.

My throat is still raw and tight but the flow of blood from my shnozz seems to have lessened somewhat. My head still hurts and my nose is throbbing, and it’s hard to swallow. I stand up and automatically go to my backpack to get something to ease the pain. Then I freeze. I don’t do that anymore, right? I stopped. I went through all that hell of being sick like that so I could stop. I didn’t go through it so I could just start all over again the second things got hard… I knew this was gonna happen when I decided to quit, didn’t i?! I never thought that just because I quit the drinking my mother would magically stop beating on me. 

The need pounds through my veins. It’s almost a physical ache, but I resist. I guess that constantly being in pain has to pay off somehow… I’m so glad I threw all the pills and booze away instead of keeping them for emergencies like I originally wanted to. But in a rare moment of crystal clarity I realized that that was the addiction talking and that once I was clean and gasping for something, anything might constitute an emergency. Look at me being smart for once!

I grab my things. I don’t care if my mom needs me tonight or if she discovers I’m missing. I don’t care! I need to get away from her; get out from under this roof! I stuff Giselle into my backpack and swing myself out of the window. I creep like a cat burglar down the street sticking to the shadows in case she happens to be looking out the window. Halfway down the street my dad’s car rounds the corner and I dive sideways into the nearest bush. A rose bush. Awesome! 

But he doesn’t see me and so I can endure the thorns that prick me all over and the little scratches they leave. I can endure anything if it makes me invisible to my parents.

I swing into McDonalds to pick up food. I actually get two burgers for once because I’m hungry. Really hungry. For what feels like the first time in forever. I get some horrified looks and remember the fact that my nose was gushing Niagara Falls of blood not even an hour ago. I drop in to the bathroom and do my best to wipe away the drying blood with paper towels so thin they practically disintegrate when I hold them under the water. I do my best and then flip up my hood, keeping my head down, face hidden.

I arrive on my roof just in time for the sunset. The burger and my hunger forgotten I fumble for my camera and start to shoot. I can’t get enough of the pictures of the oranges, reds, pinks, and purples. They’re so much stronger and bolder than the lacy pale pastel colors of the morning.

When the sun has vanished I curl up in my blanket and scarf down the food. Afterwards I sit feeling strangely floaty and sated. I’d forgotten what it felt like to have enough food in your belly for once.

Winter comes just as I’m starting to think he won’t. He appears noiselessly as always, the moonlight glinting off his metal arm. It’s the first time he’s had it uncovered since that day I saw him blow the foreign caravan to hell.

“Hi.” I smile brightly at him.

He jerks in what I guess is surprise at my exuberant greeting. Then his forehead wrinkles. “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing.”

He crouches down swiftly, leaning close to me, so close that his covered nose almost touches my uncovered one. My breath hitches. 

“Don’t lie to me.” He snarls softly. 

My eyes widen. “I’m not… not really. I just meant… well obviously not _nothing_ happened but…I meant that _it’s_ nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

He leans out of my personal space, sitting back on his haunches. My body relaxes fractionally. “Don’t say that it doesn’t matter that someone is hurting you.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not saying that it doesn’t matter. I’m just saying that there’s nothing I can do about it, so freaking out over it isn’t gonna help anything…” I trail off. 

“Wait here.” He says before rising and walking straight out the door and down the stairs.

I sit somewhat shell shocked. What just happened? Where did he go? I don’t move from my position until he appears in front of me again, dropping down from the little roof that houses the exit to the staircase. I give a small shriek of surprise.

He crouches in front of me and produces a bottle of water and several rags. I shy back, staring at him suspiciously but he just keeps coming until I stop trying to evade him, knowing that there’s no sense anyway.

He wets one of the rags with the water and very carefully starts wiping at my face.

“I can do that…” I mumble.

He ignores me.

“Where did you get that stuff?”

“Gas station around the corner.”

“Let me guess, you didn’t buy it?”

“No.” again I want to imagine this said with a cheeky grin on his face but I’m rather inclined to doubt it.

My eyes fall onto his metal arm. I’ve never seen it close up before without it being wrapped around my throat and now I study it with interest. Very carefully I reach out to touch it.

“Don’t.” He warns in a low and mildly dangerous voice. 

I pull my hand back right away, tucking it under my opposite armpit just in case. “Sorry.”

He says nothing.

“Why do you have that metal arm?”

“Because I lost my real one.”

“How?” 

“I don’t remember.”

How do you not remember losing your arm? “But something must have happened…”

“I don’t ask.”

“Why not?”

Silence. It appears to be his go to whenever I touch a nerve.

He tilts my face up, looking at my throat. “Someone choked you.”

Thank you Captain Obvious! I know. I was there! “Yup.”

“Why?”

“Guess my talking was annoying them.”

I can picture the look I can feel him giving me all too well. His thumb skims over the shallow scratches my mom’s nails made across my left cheek. “And these?”

“Cat.”

“Big cat!”

“Tiger, actually.”

He falls silent again, rewetting the rag to keep cleaning my face. My eyes go back to his metal arm. I really want to touch it. Maybe he’ll let me if I ask permission first. “Can I touch your arm?”

Silence. Then: “Why?”

“I want to know what it feels like.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I just do…” 

“I don’t like being touched.”

“Neither do I but that doesn’t stop you from always pawing at my face…” I indicate his hand holding my cheeks in place as he cleans blood of my chin. He pauses, considering me. I think.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“You can touch the arm.”

I’m surprised. But before he can change his mind again I reach out gingerly and very lightly draw my fingers over the inside crook of his elbow.

He jerks and utters a word in a language I don’t understand. I freeze. “What did I do?”

“It tickles.”

Oh! I look down at my fingers resting lightly on the cold metal. “You can feel this?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Isn’t this arm pure metal? How does it have feeling?

“I don’t know.”

There must be some kick ass scientist out there who’s developed prosthetics with tactile feelings. Why hasn’t that been marketed? “Who designed this?”

A violent shudder moves through him and his fingers on my face tighten painfully but apparently unconsciously. I flinch. “Um… ow.” 

He gives his head a little shake then loosens his grip. Okay, so don’t ask about the arm designer. Very touchy subject apparently. I wonder why…? “How long have you had it for?”

“Years.” 

“Was it weird at first? Suddenly having an arm that was no longer yours?”

He lets go of my face and sits back. His face turns to look out at the city over the edge of the rooftop. I guess he’s ignoring me again.

“I hated it at first…” his voice is so quiet that I have to lean forward slightly to hear him. I’ve never heard it so soft. “I don’t remember getting it but I hated it.”

“And now?”

More minutes long silence before: “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

His face turns slowly towards mine. “If whoever’s beating me up matters then this matters too. You hate it, but you’re still forced to wear it, aren’t you? Someone’s forcing you.”

“No one forces me to do anything.”

I frown at the tone this is delivered in. His voice has taken on a monotone quality almost like he’s reading from a script, reciting lines he’s spend ages practicing. Or that someone has spent ages drilling into his head. And another fact makes itself known to me in that moment; one that didn’t register earlier. He said “the arm". When he told me I could touch it he said I could touch _the_ arm. Not _my_ arm. Like he doesn’t consider it to be a part of him.

I lean back digesting these new thoughts. “Who are you, Winter?”

“I told you before. Dangerous.”

“No, not what are you. Who are you?”

“I don’t remember my name.”

“I’m not asking for a name. I’m asking who you are. Name or no name. Who is the Winter Soldier?”

“An assassin.”

Argh, this is frustrating. I don’t know if he’s being deliberately obtuse or if he really doesn’t understand what I’m asking. “No, I mean like personally. Who do you think you are? Not what do people think you are, what do they tell you to be. Just you. What do you like? Dislike? What gives you peace of mind? What’s the first thing that pops into your mind when you think of something that’s _good?”_

“You.” 

“Me? Okay. I like photography and nighttime. I like the moon. I like cheesy cliché romance novels, much as I hate to admit it. I like pizza, or I used to. I hate math. I hate my house. I hate being inside, and being in closed spaces. Being outside gives me peace of mind. So do sunrises. The first thing that pops into my mind when I think of something that’s good is sunflowers and road trips and New York City.” I look at him expectantly. That’s how you do it, I want to say. Now your turn.

“No, I meant you.”

I frown in confusion and he must sense it even though he’s not looking at me. “The first thing that pops into my head when I think of something that’s good: you.”

Oh… _Oh!_ I stare at him completely and utterly shocked and surprised out of any wits I may have ever actually possessed. “Me?”

He nods.

“You think I’m good?!”

“Yes.” 

I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. It’s a derisive snort of mirth completely devoid of any actual humor but filled to the brim with self loathing. “Man, Winter, I’m flattered, really I am, but I’m about the furthest thing from _good_ that you possibly could have picked.”

“Not next to me you’re not.”

Hm. Okay well that might be true. “Still…”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you say you’re not good?”

I shrug. I wonder if I should take a leaf out of his book and just not answer. But I can’t… “It’s just… I’ve done a lot of bad things. Still do. And everyone in my life just invariably seems to hate me…”

“I don’t.” 

“Don’t what?”

“Hate you.”

“You don’t count, Winter.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re not in my actual life. You’re in the hidden part that no one knows about. You don’t see me during the day when I have to be whoever need to be to survive.”

“I know you better then.”

“What makes you say that?”

“During the day you’re pretending. At night you’re not. This is the real you.”

“Yea, but the real me isn’t all that good either.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s usually too zonked on booze to even know her own name.” I say this before I consider the fact that he doesn’t know his own name either and that this might be an insulting phrase.

“I though you quit.”

“I did. But I’m hardly celebrating my ten years sober anniversary yet.”

His head turns to me. “Why do you keep coming back?”

I fold my arms around myself, feeling personally attacked by that question because I keep asking myself it too and keep coming up so woefully short on answers. “Why do you?” I shoot back.

He looks away again. Silence descends.

“Because you’re the only good thing I know.”

“Really? The only thing?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.

We lapse into silence again both of us hankering after our own thoughts. I mean that’s what I’m doing; he could be mentally sewing curtains over there for all I know.

I break the silence in the early hours. “Hey, Winter?”

He doesn’t answer but turns his head slightly towards me to indicate that he’s listening.

I hesitate. “I don’t know why I keep coming back, but you’re… you’re a good thing in my life too, for whatever reason. So will you promise me something? Something else?”

He inclines his head ever so slightly.

“If you ever decide that I’m not a good thing anymore or that you don’t want to come back, will you come back just the one more time and tell me? Will you promise to not just do your ghost thing permanently and disappear forever without telling me first?”

He sits, face turned towards me, silence and stillness clinging to him like living shadows. For once I don’t turn away, don’t drop my eyes intimidated. I look back at him evenly, keeping my face as blank as I can. 

Finally he nods.

“Promise?” 

“Yes.”

I hold up my pinky. 

I want to imagine him smiling as he wraps his around mine, but it makes a lot more sense that he’d be rolling his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is he starting to open up to her? I don't know...  
> Where am I going with this? I don't know that either...  
> Am I gonna keep going? You bet your ass i am.  
> Lol. I have a loose idea of where this is all going to wind up but how will I get there?!  
> If anyone wants to make any random suggestions go for it! I'm open to ideas.  
> Also if anyone has any ideas for tags I could add to this story please do hit me with them. I suck at thinking of this stuff.  
> Much thanks.


	10. Resting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter, but something important happens anyway.  
> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of abuse.  
> I hope you like and apologies for disappearing for a few today's there. I'm back now!

The rest of the week passes slowly. I go back every night. Winter always shows up. Sometimes for only an hour in the later parts of the early morning, other times almost as soon as I get there, leading me to believe that he was following me again. I bring him food every day, eating a bit more each day as my need for my bad habits decreases infinitesimally and my hunger increases in leaps and bounds. It feels good filling my body with normal, harmless things again, even as I still violently miss the highs and the escapes. But I’ve even also actually almost quit the smoking. Mostly because it annoys Winter and I can’t really smoke too much during the daytime because of school and _the mother._

Speaking of _the mother,_ she is her usual self and I collect various sundry bruises, marks, and scrapes as the days pass but nothing more out of the ordinary. The imaginary version of her that brought me tea has vanished like she never existed. I can't say I’m surprised, but a part of me that’s still childishly naïve is disappointed and crushed. Amazing, in a twisted way what one second of hope can do. Maybe she did it on purpose to mindfuck me even more? I wouldn’t put it past her…

I’m taken over by a strange new energy. It doesn’t necessarily feel good; it feels almost manic, like I’m possessed, but I deal. I think it might come from the increased amounts of food ratcheting up my actual energy rather than my illusionary energy like the drinking used to do…

But on Sunday I find myself wanting to channel that energy into something positive and so I bake cookies. From scratch. My mother actually smiles when I bring them out to her. Not at me, mind you, at the plate, but I haven’t seen her smile in a long, long time in a way that wasn’t malicious so it’s… something, seeing that expression on her face. Doesn’t make me hate her any less though. 

The rest of the cookies I pack into a large Tupperware container which I sneak upstairs to my room. I wonder if Winter likes homemade cookies? I’m gonna find out.

The last few days I’d gotten more and more confident around him. I’m still pretty scared of him on a basic instinctual level but it’s getting better. I started telling him a whole bunch of random crap that happened at school and I think he listens attentively. He definitely doesn’t seem bored. But then again he could be dozing behind his full face cover up. Who knows?!

He’s still a man of few words, but it’s fine. Every time he says something or answers one of my questions is a tiny little victory for me. I found out that the language he was speaking when I accidentally tickled his arm was Russian. He doesn’t remember where he learned Russian or if he himself is Russian. Any little tiny scrap of information he gives me about himself I hoard like a jealous dragon does her pile of gold. Good Kate thinks it’s sweet. Bad Kate tells me I’m pathetic!

He still turns away from me whenever he takes his mask of to eat…

I make my way back in the dark of the night taking longer than normal because I’m dawdling and snapping pictures of anything that intrigues me along the way. I’m telling myself that I’m doing this because I’ve been neglecting my photography hobby lately but in reality it’s because I’m stalling. I’m nervous about giving him these cookies. Why? No clue. It’s no different than the burgers, sandwiches, wraps, and slices of pizza I bring him other nights. It’s food. But somehow the fact that this is homemade by me over the course of several hours of my afternoon instead of being bought within two minutes of ducking in an out of a fast food place makes the cookies seem more relevant.

Because I’m so slow to arrive he’s already there when I come onto the roof. He sits in the shadow of my makeshift tent, scaring the crap out of me.

“Jesus, Winter.” I press a hand to my hammering heart. 

He says nothing. 

“How was your day?”

“I was sleeping.”

“Hah. Me too.”

That strange air of something seems to surround him, like there’s something he wants to say in response to that but doesn’t. His mystery is starting to wear on me. “What?” I ask exasperated.

“What what?”

“You wanted to say something just now but didn’t.”

His forehead wrinkles. “How can you tell?” 

“I just can.”

More silence.

“So?”

“So what?”

Is he being deliberately obtuse? “So are you gonna tell me?”

“No.”

Ugh. Pain in the ass! “Gee, thanks!” I throw the box of cookies into his lap with a bit more force than warranted, then sink down next to him, about three meters of space between us.

“What’s this?” 

“Cookies.”

“Why did you bring me cookies?” He sounds confused. Guess that answers my question. He doesn’t like ‘em.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

I say nothing.

“You’re not gonna tell me?”

“No.” I know I sound like a petulant child.

He sighs heavily. I turn my face away. My eyes are burning and I don’t want him to see. Why do I keep doing nice things for people? No one ever actually gives a damn.

“My sleep is always painful.” He says quietly and I sit up straighter. “It was the first thing I thought when you said you’d also spent your day sleeping, that your sleep was probably painless. But there’s no reason why you should have to concern yourself with my being in pain.”

I turn to look at him. “They hurt you even while you’re resting?”

“It’s less of a rest, more of a time to… recharge.”

He’s done this a few times now, indirectly admitted that he is in fact being controlled by some group or organization, though he hasn’t outright said as much. It helps me separate the murdering assassin I know he is from the quietly intense man that sits silently on rooftops with me, though I know they’re one and the same. But maybe one is controlled and the other one… is not. At least not as much.

He lifts the lid of the Tupperware container. “Thank you for bringing me cookies.”

“So you do like cookies?”

“I don’t know. I guess I do.”

A small smile breaks over my face. “I baked them for you. I mean my mom ate most of them since I had to give them to her so she wouldn’t be mad that I made cookies and she didn’t get any, but I wouldn’t have made them at all if I knew I wasn’t seeing you tonight.”

He’s silent, studying me for long moments over the open container that emits a mouth-watering smell of baked goods. Then very slowly, almost in slow motion his hands rise. One cups the mask at his chin, the other reaches behind his head.

My eyes widen. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?

He is. Holy shit, he’s taking off his mask and he’s not turning away from me to do it. I watch, feeling like my eyes are about to pop out of my skull as he slowly lowers the bottom half of the muzzle. He’s looking down, which casts his face in shadow, and I don’t dare blink just in case I miss something. 

He looks up. I blink. Rapidly. My eyes rove all over his face. His hair frames a strong, square chin and the sharpest jawline I have ever perceived on a man. Light stubble dusts the lower half of his face, the same shade as the dark brown hair that hangs around it. His lips have a naturally soulful curve and a deep cupid’s bow. Even though the half of his face that I can now see still registers no actual emotion, his lips lend an air of vulnerability and sadness to him that makes him instantly more human in my mind.

“Wow…” I breathe. “Hi Winter.”

“Hi.” It’s amazing. I can see his lips moving as he speaks to me. I can’t tear my eyes away. And speaking of eyes I wish I could see his too but I guess I shouldn’t be greedy. This is already more than I ever expected to get.

His mouth tightens in a guarded fashion and I understand that my avid fascination is probably making him second guess his decision to take off the mask. I change the subject quickly.

“Hey look,” I pull the zipper of my jacket down halfway. “I’m wearing your shirt.”

A strange tremor passes over his lips for a split second. Was that a smile? I think that was a smile. An actual smile! From the Winter Soldier, deadly serious, super control freak, assassin extraordinaire. Wow. Today is an unqualified success!

I reach forward slowly, letting him see what I’m doing, and snag one of the cookies from the box on his lap. I start munching on it which inspires him to eat them too, or maybe he was just waiting for me to take one first to prove that they weren’t poisoned. No idea how his mind works.

“Good?” I ask carefully after he’s taken the first bite. I can’t take my eyes from his lips, the way they open showing even pearly white teeth; clearly dental hygiene is very important to master mercenaries. The way they close around the cookie then pull away moving as he chews. I never knew lips could be so fascinating.

“Yes.” 

I smile at the verdict.

Between us we finish the entire box and then just sit in silence. He doesn’t put his mask back on after he’s finished eating. Another first. I can’t help sneaking glances his way every few minutes trying to memorize his face because I’m not altogether sure that I’ll see it this way again.

We're silent, the way we often are. In a way it's strange... I've never met anyone like him; like _me_ , who likes silence as much as i do and is comfortable with it. Usually people just want to fill it with empty words. But not Winter. He lets me talk when I want to and listens, and when I don't want to he still sits with me content. At least I've always thought he was content, but before tonight i never really knew. I mean he's still pretty impenetrable, but at least I can tell that there's no frown of annoyance or anger on his face. He seems... calm. _At rest_ maybe? Can he be at rest? Isn't that what he was alluding to earlier, that he can't physically rest, isn't allowed to? But maybe that's the difference... maybe that's what keeps bringing him back here. The fact that with me, next to me he's allowed to rest..?! 

When its time to leave he stands up with me. As he steps out from beneath the shadowy recesses of my tarp tent the light from the full moon overhead falls across his face. I frown and take a step closer to him staring intently. He freezes immediately, every muscle tensing not like mine in fear when he comes too close, but in preparation. Preparation for what I don’t know. To ward me off, to bolt, to attack. I’m too focused though to let it deter me. My hand rises slowly intent for his left cheek. There’s a bruise there, below his eye, following the line of his cheekbone. It’s not irregular like my bruises usually are indicating that it was caused by a fist; it's strangely rectangular with clearly defined corners. Like it was made by someone hitting him with something square, or pressing it hard to his face for a very, very long time.

His metal hand flashes up and catches my fingers right before they touch down on his skin. He says nothing just holds my hand there in a grip that’s not exactly too tight but not comfortable either. I can feel the threat in those cold, clenched fingers as well as the warning: _don’t touch!_

I don’t try to pull my hand away, knowing from experience that it doesn’t work; he’ll hold on and likely even squeeze tighter. Instead I slowly close my fingers as much as his grip allows me to, indicating that I get it and that if he let’s me go I won’t keep trying to touch him.

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but I still can’t tell if it’s in anger, or apprehension, or something else. I’d need to see his eyes to determine that. Gah, this is still frustrating!

He lets go then walks away towards the edge of the roof. I take that as a dismissal and wordlessly retrieve my backpack. Just as I’m walking through the door to the stairwell I hear him behind me.

“Kate.”

I freeze. It’s the first time he’s ever said my name. I wasn’t even sure if he knew it, had picked it up when I told him that one time, or even remembers it.

I look back at him over my shoulder.

He’s holding his mask up by his face, clearly about to slip it back on. “Don’t make me break my promise.” Then the mask is on and he noiselessly vaults over the far side of the roof where I know there to be a balcony two stories down.

I stand frozen for a few seconds. What did that mean? Don’t make him break his promise. Which promise? The one not to hurt me? Or the one not to kill me? Or both? And why? Because I’d seen most of his face? Does he think I’ll go to the police now? Maybe? I won’t though… and honestly by this point I think he should know that.

I sigh as I heft my backpack more securely onto my shoulders and start my way down the stairs. Even with half his face on display he’s still just as mysterious as he ever was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaaaah. Are we getting through to Bucky? Who knows...  
> Well, I do. But I'm not telling. Yet!  
> Hope you liked. Feedback is appreciated.  
> Thanks for reading! 😊🥰


	11. Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of abuse. And I guess sort of stalking in a way, I know that can be triggering for some people, though in this case its not exactly intentional... you'll understand as you read (i hope!)  
> Anyway enjoy!

  
He can’t believe he did what he did. He took his mask off. In front of her. He let her see. She has seen him. It’s only half of his face but it is more than anyone has ever seen outside of his handlers. It’s more than they would want him to show. But then again they wouldn’t want him to show himself to her at all… 

So maybe it’s not so bad. If they knew that she had seen him, even after that first time they would punish him heavily. Because being seen is bad. But nothing bad has come out of it. In fact only exactly the opposite. Good. Only good. 

He shivers slightly but for the first time in what he’s sure is forever, it’s not because of the cold that lives inside his bones. It’s something else something that comes with a strange squeezing of his lungs, palpitations of his heart, and a dry mouth. 

She is warmth. She is safety. She is peace. None of which he’s known in such a long time. He’s been told that he is safe, that his very existence symbolizes safety, but safety from whom? From what? Himself? Them?

He knows he’s not supposed to question it but he doesn’t know how to stop it anymore. And he doesn’t really want to. Not when she’s around. 

He’s always cold. Sometimes he believed that the name Winter Soldier stems from the ice in his veins and the frost that lives in his bones. But when she is near he feels a warmth. A warmth that he can’t remember ever feeling. And it’s not like the warmth he feels on the rare occasions that he’s out on a mission in the full summer day light; that warmth still never seems to penetrate through his perpetually chilled skin, constantly kept cold by the Cryo freeze. This warmth, It comes from within him. 

He had lied to her. When she had touched his arm he hadn’t jerked because her touch had tickled him. He had jerked because it had been warm. Warmth was not something he was familiar with and so the feeling had shocked him.

And her voice. When she talks to him afraid, he recognizes her voice. Many people are afraid on some base level when they speak to him so he knows what fear sounds like in peoples voices. What he doesn’t know is kindness. She’s so nice to him. She doesn’t yell at him, she doesn’t shout, or threaten or give him orders. And when she speaks so calmly and sweetly her voice is something new to him and he doesn’t understand it but all he knows is that he wants her to keep on speaking to him like that forever. 

But she usually doesn’t. Because she’s still afraid of him and she probably thinks that he doesn’t want her to speak. She apologizes for talking too much sometimes and he doesn’t know how to tell her that he doesn’t mind. Because he’s supposed to mind. He’s not supposed to like it or enjoy it. He’s not supposed to enjoy or like anything at all.

He hates seeing her in pain, wants nothing more than to take it away but the part of him that knows his hands are tied is strangely glad for her pain. Because it connects them, it makes them kindred spirits. It makes her understand him and helps him to understand at least a part of her. He wonders if he would feel the same threads of connection if she wasn’t being hurt…

But still… every time he sees a new bruise disfiguring her face, or watches her limp, or wince slightly as she moves he feels a tightness in his chest. Anger, he thinks. He’s more familiar with anger than he is with most other emotions now. Anger is one of his handlers’ favourites. He doesn’t know what it feels like anymore but he knows what it looks and sounds like. Raised voices, throbbing veins in necks and temples, gritted teeth, spittle flying, clenched muscles, red faces. Loud, violent, explosive. When he sees the marks left on her by another’s hand he feels hot, he feels a tightening deep inside his chest. His muscles lock and his jaw tightens. _Is_ it anger? Maybe.

He stops and looks around disoriented. He has no idea where he is, which on its own is a sobering thought. He’s supposed to be aware of everything around him at all times, but he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t realized where he’d wandered. The idea bothers him as much as it thrills him. The notion that he was actually lost deeply enough in thoughts to lose his way is strangely liberating after years of not having enough thoughts of his own. He just has to be careful that it doesn’t happen again lest they find out somehow.

His eyes land on the house opposite to where he stands in the shadow of a tree. He recognizes it. It's her house. He’s only been here once before but he would recognize it anywhere. His eyes unerringly find their way to the right, upstairs window behind which he knows is her room. There are no lights on. Does that mean she’s asleep? Or is she not home yet.

Another strange emotion spikes through him, a sort of shivering in his chest, along with a wash of cold although this cold is different than that which he normally knows. This cold isn’t painful, but it prickles oddly. What is this feeling? Could it be worry? For her? That something might have happened to her?

He stares fixedly at her window, willing a sign of life to appear. Instead the window directly below hers flares with harsh yellow light. 

Is it her?

Drawn forward like a moth to a flame he moves soundlessly across the street. It’s not her. It’s the woman who looks like her but doesn’t. They have the same complexion, the same hair, the same eyes, and the same delicate features. But whereas she exudes warmth and comfort, strength and fragility at the same time, this woman seems to ooze meanness and cruelty. Her eyes are flat and cold, her mouth downturned at the corners like she smells something bad. She reminds him of his handlers, even though they are all men. But somehow she has that same air of malicious anger around her, like she enjoys causing pain.

His teeth clench hard, his fingers curl into fists. This woman hurts her, hurts Kate. He pauses. It’s the first time he’s thought her name, because earlier was the first time he’d said it aloud. But this woman is the one who puts the bruises on her, and by extent puts the pain in her eyes. He knows because he heard that one time. And because she; _Kate,_ tells him. Sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly. This woman, her mother, is the one who hurts her. A mother is not supposed to hurt her child!

He’s stayed for a moment by this thought that intrudes out of nowhere. How does he know yhat? He doesn’t even remember his own mother. But somehow this knowledge is instinctive. The thought though has planted a seed in his brain and now it has sprung roots, thorny roots that twist through him making a dull ache spread heavy in his blood. Could it be sadness? Because he doesn’t remember his own mother, doesn’t know if she was good, if she loved him, or if she treated him like her mother does. Did he love his mother.

He shakes his head slightly trying to dislodge the thorns digging into his mind. He’s not supposed to have these thoughts! He’s not!

Then before he can stop himself he’s moving along the wall like a shadow, toward the front door. The lock presents no problem for him and within seconds he is in the hall, then standing outside the room in which the woman is. She hasn’t noticed him of course, hasn’t heard his soundless entry into her house. She stands at the sink pouring a sharp smelling, clear liquid into a glass.

The smell permeating the kitchen is the same that used to hover like a cloud around her– Kate. But it hasn’t in a while now and she seems better because of it somehow.

The woman’s head turns. She doesn’t see him; anticipating her moves he retreats behind the doorframe before she can. But as she turned he saw quite clearly the healing scabs on her knuckles, the same kind he wears across his on his right hand. The wounds that come from punching another person, when the tight skin stretched over bones splits open on impact. He remembers Kate’s face tonight. The way she had worn her hair so it hung over her left cheek. He’d known there was another bruise high on her cheekbone, he’d known even before he’d seen it when she had moved her head and her hair had swung around her face. He hadn’t tried to get a closer look at it although he’d wanted to because he had remembered her telling him that, just like him, she didn’t like to be touched. 

That red hot feeling comes back, rising like a tide in his chest, except this time it burns even hotter until it’s almost white. Seemingly by themselves his hands find their way to his utility belt and pull out the gloves he wears to prevent fingerprints and hide his metal hand: to make himself even more anonymous in a world that doesn’t know he exists and wouldn’t want to acknowledge him if it knew.

Slowly, methodically he pulls them on, feeling the same sense of cold detachment as he feels before every new mission, sweep over him. It’s like his brain detaches from his body, leaving him more than usually with the knowledge that he is nothing more than a preprogrammed machine. The woman’s footsteps approach. He takes a single step backwards, melting into the shadowed hallway and waits.

She’s there. She made it home. He stands in the doorway to her room looking at her curled up shape beneath the blanket. He knows he shouldn’t be here, and not because they don’t want him to be; that much is obvious, but because this is an invasion of her privacy, and she probably wouldn’t want him here anyway given how afraid she still is of him. But he had to know that she was safe. That strange new concept of worry that had gripped him just wouldn’t let go and after seeing that woman…

He's not wearing his goggles and so for the first time sees her without the sheen of his sophisticated night vision equipment. Without it her face seems softer somehow, less starkly thrown into high relief. Sweeter, but sadder too. She’s frowning in her sleep, lying on her stomach, face turned towards him, one hand curled into a tight fist on her pillow. She twitches and makes a soft sound almost like a sob.

A single tear runs sideways down her face.

Drawn to her and to that sadness of hers that speaks to something long buried inside him, he can’t stop himself from coming closer. He wishes he could do something to comfort her, but even if he knew what to do, he wouldn’t know how to do it. He knows it’s wrong, knows he should leave. But she’s crying and he feels a hollow emptiness inside him at the sight of her tears.

But what can he do?

Suddenly he remembers something. His still gloved hands search inside his pockets and come out holding a worn and faded folded square of paper. As he unfolds it a smear of wet red from his glove streaks the already yellowing white. The flyer for the firework display looks back at him. He’d forgotten ripping it off the wall in that truck stop bathroom.

He raises his eyes to her sleeping form. She would like it; he knows she would. But he shouldn’t. He can’t. 

Another tear rolls down her face and her hand on the pillow clenches and unclenches once.

He looks back at the flyer, then, making a decision, moves like a shadow across the room. He picks a pen from her desk and draws a single careful circle. Then, cautious to not let his shadow fall across her sleeping shape he tucks the refolded square into her hand. Light as a feather he allows the fingers of his right hand to trail over the curls of her hair, once; just for a single second. Then he bounds across the room and without a sound drops through her window straight to the ground landing like a panther amid the empty flowerbeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yea... I know its sort of rather very creepy to think about having this big bulky menacing dude in your bedroom watching you sleep. I'm not defending Winter's decision. But I'd, I dunno, justify it by saying that he doesn't know what he's doing really. He doesn't know right from wrong anymore because of Hydra brainwashing (fuck hydra!) So yea I'm not advocating for creepyish twilight-esque Cullen stalker tendencies as romantic or "goals". (Apologies if you're a twilight fan. No offence meant! I just personally always found it creepy that Edward watched Bella sleep every night without her knowing. But that's just my opinion and if you don't share that that's fine) But yeh, I'm not advocating stalking. We'll see in the next few chapters how Kate reacts to it.  
> What do we think about the rather unconventional way of passing notes?  
> Also whaaaat did he do to her mother, if anything? Mysteriiiies!!!  
> Any feedback is loved! SPEAK TO ME! just kidding. I appreciate all of my silent readers so much.  
> Have a cookie! 🍪  
> See ya next chapter! 🤗


	12. Are You Smiling?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyyyy for dissapearing again. Amd leaving you on sort of a cliffhanger. I finally got to go back to work after like 7 months!!! There's a lot more cleaning now. I don't think I've ever cleaned so much.  
> Anyway TRIGGER WARNINGS for this chapter are few. Mild stalking, and mentions of abuse as well as injuries.   
> Other than that, dare I say it some tentative fluff? Of the platonic sort.   
> Enjoy!

I wake up to the persistent buzzing of my alarm. I groan, swatting at the annoying thing and missing because of some strange obstruction between my fingers. Groggy, I peel my eyelids apart, trying to focus my bleary vision on my hand, and absently shutting off the alarm with the other.

I frown at the piece of paper I’m holding. Where the hell did this come from and why did I fall asleep with it? Am I having acute lapses in memory too now?

I sit up, sweeping my tangled hair out of my eyes, and return to contemplating the folded paper. There’s a rust red streak on the outside of it which could be anything. Ketchup maybe? Dirt? I unfold it and frown harder. It’s an advertisement for a firework display some random corporation is throwing tonight. Some sort of party plus publicity stunt thing. Why the hell would I have taken this?

Unless… unless I didn’t. Unless it was given to me. Put into my hand while I was asleep. But by whom? My mother? Haha! My father? I’m pretty sure he’s actually forgotten my existence by now. Some random burglar who doesn’t steal anything but leaves behind flyers? Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Or maybe it’s a promotional stunt by the company hosting the fireworks: break into people’s homes to distribute your flyers. Ok, I’m just making shit up at this point to avoid what I know is the truth.

I turn the paper over again to look at that mysterious reddish-brown streak. I’m almost certain now that this is blood. 

Winter.

Who else really?

That means that between me getting home last night at 4:15, and my alarm going off at 7:50, somewhere in those 3 hours, 35 minutes he was here. Inside my room. Watching me. Leaving me notes.

Moments after I allow this realization to take up residence in my brain Good Kate starts hemming and hawing about how creepy and scary that is that he was here, in our room, while we were sleeping and couldn’t do a thing to defend ourselves.

Bad Kate laughs, reminding us that we couldn’t do a thing to defend ourselves against him; awake _or_ sleeping. 

Good Kate tells Bad Kate to go suck rocks!

 _Whoa!_ Looks like she’s grown a set of balls in her old age. Bad Kate is stunned into silence. And I’m left to think. It is kind of very creepy and odd that he would do that. But I mean… he’s been stalking me for weeks as well and whatever kind of relationship we have has always been very out of the norm. I mean we started out with him hunting me down and wanting to kill me.

My fingers lightly trace over the small streak of blood on the back of the paper. This should disturb me… Does that mean that he had another _mission_ after our rendezvous last night? Maybe he just got a nosebleed or picked open a scab?! Not likely. I want to be creeped out that he was in here without me knowing. I’ve always found it exceedingly creepy when characters in books or movies do exactly this, but somehow I can’t be. Not really. It’s different. And maybe that’s me being naïve, or impressionable, or really just plain stupid, but it just doesn’t feel the same. Besides I’m not entirely sure that he really would understand why this might be frowned upon, and not because he’s dense or whatever, but because of that strange way that he is, that way I think he’s made by whomever pulls his strings and tries to make him into a robot. It’s not that he’d refuse to understand it; it’s that I think he physically _can’t_ because the ability to has somehow been removed from his psyche…

All day long I puzzle over the flyer; the message from Winter. I fold and unfold the paper so many times that the creases flatten and the russet stain fades to a light brown streak, barely recognizable as blood anymore.

I think I slowly start to piece together the pieces to the riddle and his thought process in leaving this for me to find. He’s telling me about a firework display tonight. That much is obvious. It starts at 9:30pm across town. Again obvious. Although potentially problematic because I’m never gonna get there in time if my mother doesn’t miraculously go to bed at like 8 or something, because making my way over there by bus will take at least an hour. But I’ll worry about that later.

The flyer shows the part of the city where the display will be held and he’s circled the rooftop of a single building in, of all things, sparkly green pen, likely the first one he grabbed off my desk. This is less obvious but I’d assume he means that he wants me to not only meet him, but meet him there, since Mr. Mega-Secret-Spectral-Assassin can’t exactly mingle with the crowd. 

Ok. Makes sense so far. But _why?_ Therein lies the rub. Why does he want to meet me? Why is he inviting me to something? A firework of all things? I was under the impression that he only barely tolerates me.

But maybe not. Maybe that another part of the emotional damage they’ve done to him, whoever _they_ are. Whoever they are, I hate their freakin’ guts! But maybe he doesn’t know how to show me that he also likes spending time with me. I mean he’s told me before that he thinks that I’m _good._ That sounds like more than merely tolerating me. Ugh, I don’t know, I just don’t. I want to believe that he sees me as a friend too. But there’s just something about that stoic-ness… 

But again maybe that’s not his fault. Probably.

Even though I have no idea how I’ll manage to get out of the house to go and meet him I cannot wait for this day to end. Even photography drags by. And then when the bell rings and I’m about to shoot out of my seat and run out the door I hear Mr. Burnett call me back. “Slate! Hang on a sec.”

Dangit! I turn and wait, trying my best to keep myself from fidgeting and my foot from tapping impatiently. I succeed with the foot. As for the fidgeting… not so much.

Mr. B. takes his sweet time ambling over to where I’m standing beside my desk, practically vibrating with the need to get out of here. “Wassup?” I ask when he _finally_ makes it.

“I just wanted to ask you how you’re doing? You seem… keyed up lately. Different.”

I do? I guess I do. Is it the absence of the alcohol that was usually running through my veins almost as much as blood was, or is it Winter’s influence… I’m almost afraid to answer that..!

I just shrug. “I guess I’m excited that I’ll be graduating soon. The end's in sight and all that, yanno?”

He nods slowly. “You haven’t brought me any pictures to develop in a while.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess I’ve had other things on my mind lately. But I’ll use my camera tonight and bring you some new pics soon! Okay? Promise."

I _really_ want to get out of here! But as I say it I realize that I should bring my camera with me tonight. Fireworks will make some _killer_ shots! That is _if_ my favourite teacher ever lets me go.

He’s watching me inquisitively. “Alright, get out of here. I can see you’re eager to get somewhere, though I’m sure it’s not home.”

I grin crookedly at him. “Thanks. See ya tomorrow.”

He nods slowly. “take care of yourself, Katie. And whatever it is that’s brought this change in you… maybe don’t let it go for a while, yeah? At least not ‘til after June.”

I laugh as I hurry out the door. I don’t plan on letting it go. But I can’t really stop it from suddenly disappearing into the night without a trace or warning if it wants to… 

When I get home my mother glowers at me from her couch nest. She’s sporting a fat lip and a dark bruise on her left cheek. Looks like my dad’s been home sometime during the hours I spent in school. I feel the rise of pity but somehow manage to divert it. I turn away from her to start on my chores.

A plan starts to form as I pull together her dinner. I might be able to use this strange partial obsession she has with my grades and school performance against her. I’ve never tried doing that, never really tried challenging her in any way, but this… this is worth it. If only to see what it is that Winter wants to show me. Oh, who am I kidding?! I know what I think deep down even though I cringe to admit it. Winter himself is worth it. That extra time I’ll get to spend with him.

God! Pathetic! 

It’s still a risk though. If she gets suspicious she’ll keep a closer eye on me and then there’s a good chance I’ll be fucked. But she’s been surprisingly civil today. She hasn’t yelled at me once, nor taken a swing at me; hit _or_ miss. She’s just been glaring at me like I kicked her puppy. Not that she cares about puppies…

I decide to chance it. “Hey, Mom?” I ask quietly and submissively from beside her.

She grunts.

“I need to head out again later. I have to go to the library to work on my final term paper. You know, so I can get a good grade. Keep my GPA high. I need to use primary resources. You know, like actual books, not the computer.” Hah, like she lets me use our computer anyway. 

Grunt.

“I’ll make you your dinner first, of course!” My eyes catch on that bruise on her cheek. It looks a lot worse than any she’s gotten from my dad before… Is he escalating?

Grunt.

“And I’ll take the house key, so you won’t have to wait up, is that okay?” Like she’d _actually_ wait up for me. She’d make me sleep on the porch if I were ever late getting home for any reason.

Grunt.

“Is that a yes?”

Grunt.

I guess so. I’m sure she’d have lashed out at me if it was a no. She still might, but it looks like for the moment I’m in the clear! I press my lips together to keep the giant smile that wants to spread across my face off it. Even though I’m loath to express any kind of gratitude to her about anything I force myself to say “Thanks, Mom." before I turn away. 

I make myself calmly fetch her her dinner. Then I make myself calmly walk up the stairs to my room. Then I make myself calmly close the door. Then I practically skip over to my bed, fall facedown on it, bury my face in my pillow, and let a muffled, excited cheer lose into the cotton and down.

I arrive at the circled building at 9 on the dot. I made sure all the dishes were done, and there was nothing my mom could get me for later. Of course if she really wants to she’ll just make something up. But she actually hasn’t laid a finger on me even once all day. A rarity.

That bruise on her face is only getting worse, the entire left side of it has swelled up. I wonder if my father has escalated and has started hitting her with things other than his fists. I wonder if she’ll escalate to that too now with me… I try my best to not feel sorry for her, but I can’t help it. After a while of Good Kate and Bad Kate arguing back and forth on the bus ride about whether we should or shouldn’t feel sorry for her I got them to compromise and settle on feeling hatred for my father instead of pity for her. That brought about a measure of peace. At least for now.

Once I arrive at the building Winter directed me to I’m faced with my first problem. This one, unlike our usual meeting place is not abandoned. But it’s a public building at least, which means that I can get in without anyone looking at me weirdly. I act as if im supposed to be here, walking with purpose, and riding the elevator all the way up to the top floor. There I scout around until I find the fire stairs. If I’m right these will lead me up to the roof. I make sure that there’s no people or security cameras around before I open the heavy door a crack and squeeze through. Moments later I emerge onto the roof.

I’m blown away metaphorically and almost literally. There’s a stiff wind blowing up this high, but I ignore it once I regain my balance, because the height is amazing. I thought my abandoned office building was high. This one however has 75 floors to the 10 that mine has. _This_ is high!

I make my way to the edge, surefooted, then lean over and look straight down at the people who from up here resemble ants crawling along the sidewalks. Grinning wildly I look out over the city. I can see _everything_ from up here. I could probably see straight to Canada on a clear day!

I spread my arms wide and let out a whoop that gets snatched up by the wind and carried away over the other, equally high rooftops. 

Out of nowhere I get the strange sense that I’m not alone. With my arms still spread and raised I turn my head. Winter stands behind me in full face mask and body armor, arms crossed in front of his broad chest. 

“Hey!” I call to him over the roaring of the wind.

He doesn’t move.

I lower my arms. “I followed your instructions.” 

Still nothing. No reaction, no movement.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Did you bring your camera?”

I twist sideways, letting him see Giselle in her carry case which hangs behind my right hip.

That seems to do it. He unfolds his arms and walks slowly towards me. Apparently as unfazed as I was he leans over the edge of the roof and looks straight down at the ground and the anthill crowds below. 

“Are you scared up this high?” he asks, turning his masked face to me.

“No. Are you?”

He shakes his head slowly, then sits down right on the edge of the rooftop dangling his legs into the empty air. “I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t scared so high up.”

I sit down beside him, barely a meter of space between us. This is closer than I’ve ever purposely placed myself to him. But it’s necessary right now, otherwise I’ll have to shout at him all night to be heard over the wind. Or so I tell myself.

“Have you met many people then?” I ask, carefully casting a questioning line into the still and mysterious waters of his mind.

He turns his head slowly to look at me, telling me be knows exactly what I’m doing. He looks back out over the horizon. The aura he exudes is different today. Less intense. More… pensive. Like he’s tired or something. “I don’t know.”

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s answering my question. “Who do you know?”

Silence. 

“Them.”

“And who are they?”

More silence. And this time he doesn’t break it to answer me.

I watch him closely but can garner nothing from his body language. “They hurt you.” It’s a statement, this time, not a question like I’ve asked many times before and never gotten an answer to, so I don’t expect one this time.

“Yes.” 

I blink at him. This is the first time he’s really responded in any way to this topic. I bite my lip. Maybe if I tread very carefully I can get some more answers. Maybe making statements for him to agree or disagree with is the way to get him to open up. Not asking questions.

“And they make you do things. Murder people.” 

“No one makes me do anything.”

This line is delivered in a flat monotone, sounding as if he’s had to recite it a million times to a theater director until he knew it by heart. But the theater director must have sucked because even though he knows his lines, there’s no feeling in them. No conviction. I don’t believe a word he says. Bad acting!

“Then why do they hurt you?”

He says nothing. Right. That was a question, not a statement. 

“If no one makes you do anything, then they wouldn’t have to hurt you.”

His fist clenches where it rests on his thigh. I swallow, slightly nervous. Even though he hasn’t hurt me since that first day when he thought I was a threat I know he still could, and very easily. He doesn’t seem to want to but knowing that that could change on a dime… well, it keeps me nervous even as I’m, maybe crazily, starting to trust him. 

“I’m sorry that they hurt you.” I say quietly. I’m sure he didn’t hear it, that I spoke too softly and that the wind carried away my voice but suddenly his hand flashes out towards me.

I almost topple off the roof in shock and fright, thinking instinctively that he’s grabbing me or lashing out. But he doesn’t grab my shirt, or my hair, or my throat or face; he grabs my hand. Grabs it and squeezes it once before letting go. It all happens so quickly that I’d believe that I’d dreamed it, if my hand wasn’t tingling with the aftershocks of his cold metal fingers.

And I understand. There’s someone still in there; in that robotic, tortured shell of his. I think I’ve known for a long time but I never wanted to admit it. Why? Because I was scared? For me? For him? I’m not sure. Maybe both. But this action; this little grabbing and squeezing of my hand is so symbolic to him, to who he is, who he’s made to be, who he’s made to _not_ be. The person he is beneath all this, who he was, that’s the human being who took my hand and squeezed it in recognition, comfort, and thanks. Because that’s what a human being might do in a situation like this. The part of him that reacted so fast, too fast, as to frighten me, the one who squeezed my fingers a bit too tightly, that’s the machine, the robot, who doesn’t know about human interactions and how to do them properly anymore. But that robot part is trying. It's trying to break through, and be human again. And what happens in all the movies where robots fight to gain sentience? The ones who made them get fucking destroyed!

Slowly, very slowly I reach out towards him. _This is how it’s done,_ I want to say. _You had the right idea. Watch me. I’ll show you._ But I don’t say it. Instead I lightly wrap my smaller, much slimmer fingers around his, and squeeze once, just for a second. Then I let go, looking up at him with a slight smile.

He’s looking back at me and I want to believe he’s not glaring at me. “Are you smiling under there?” I ask.

His head tilts to one side. “I think so.”

My own smile grows. “Good.”

I throw a glance at my watch. Still 10 minutes before this firework is supposed to start. The crowd of people down below is growing.

I turn back to him. 10 minutes gives me just enough time to deal with the other issue. “So, uh… Winter…”

His head turns giving me his attention.

“Umm… obviously I got your note and deciphered your clues but… did you break in through my window?”

“No.” he says looking out over the skyline.

No? Is he denying leaving the flyer in my hand then?

“I came in through the front door.”

Through the front…?! “Okay. But you were in my room while I was sleeping.”

“Yes.” 

“Did you follow me home?”

“Unintentionally.”

How do you _unintentionally_ follow me home? You know what? Leave it! I’ve got bigger fish to fry. “That’s kind of really scary to me. Can you understand why that might be scary?”

He nods. “You’re still afraid of me.”

“Well, yes. Yes I am. But not just you. I’d be scared if anyone came into my room at night who didn’t live in the same house. Well, technically I’d be creeped out if my mom or dad did too but that’s beside the point. It’s a privacy thing. It’s a vulnerability thing. Anyone could do anything to me while I’m sleeping. It’s an invasion of my safe space. You know what I mean?”

He nods slowly. “I think so.” He looks down at the ground for a long moment before turning his masked face to me. “I don’t want to scare you."

“I think I know that. At least that you didn’t last night. And I understand that you might not know anymore what’s okay and what’s not okay in those types of situations. And it’s not your fault. And I’m not blaming you. I’m just telling you what makes me uncomfortable and ask that you respect it.”

He nods. “I will.”

I smile at him. “Thank you. That’s all I ask. And in any case I’m very happy that you asked me to come here, even if it was in a slightly creepy, awkward way!”

“You are?”

“Am… what?” his question confuses me along with the fact that he’s suddenly leaning forward slightly into my space.

“Happy. That I asked you to come?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re still scared. Of me.”

It’s my turn to look contemplatively out over the city. “I am. But… I’m also not. I… I don’t really know how to describe it.”

“Try.” He says it so simply, so curtly and gruffly that it almost makes me laugh. Another example of the human trying to break through the robot. Because the robot wouldn’t care about my feelings. But the human would. And now the human’s asking but it’s the robot part of him making the human’s question sound so clipped and unemotional.

Try, he says. Ok. I’ll try. In the simplest terms. 

“You’re my friend, Winter. I’ve never really had a friend before.”

He looks at me again. “I haven’t either. At least I don’t remember.”

I nudge him lightly with my shoulder, hoping that he won’t reciprocate and knock me off this roof. “You have one now.”

He’s silent for a long time, as down below someone starts giving a speech that we’re too high up to hear. It just sounds like automated buzzing.

“Yes.” He says over the buzzing. “I do.”

As I’m still marveling at this latest, he nudges me back, a bit harder than me but not body-checking-me-into-the-abyss hard. “I’m smiling again.” He informs me in that same monotonous voice.

And I can’t help but smile back at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not advocating stalking here at all. This chapter was strange to write. I mean i like it but somehow I feel like I'm letting them move too fast. like she's trusting him too much too fast and he's changing too much too fast. I dunno. What do you all think? Any suggestions?  
> There's conflict on the horizon soon, though im not sure how soon. Its comin tho.  
> Hope you liked it.  
> Feedback... yadda yadda yadda.  
> Thank you for reading!!!! 🥰🥰🥰


	13. We Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a TRIGGER WARNING for some flashbacks and PTSD. that's it. Very peaceful chapter. Somewhat angsty. Somewhat fluffy. In a very tentative way. Enjoy.

When the first firework explodes above our head with a whistle and a bang, he flinches. I turn away from the shower of red and gold sparks raining down from the night sky to look at him instead. His shoulders are rigid, even more so than usual, and his hands grip the ledge of the roof tightly, so tightly that I can see and hear the stone cracking where his metal fingers clench around it. It should frighten me this strength in his left arm, but it doesn’t. At least not beyond the normal amounts. “Are you okay?” I ask carefully, leaning forward slightly to look into his face although with it covered I’m not gonna get any more insight into his emotions and mental state than I would from just looking at his hands.

“Those sound like gunshots.”

They do kind of. Does that mean that he has PTSD like a war veteran? Or from assassinating? He’s probably been shot at more times than I can imagine in his line of work. Which makes the prospect of post traumatic stress disorder pretty plausible. “Do you want to leave?”

His masked face turns to me. “Don’t you want to stay?”

“Not if you’re uncomfortable.”

He gives his head a little shake. His hands are still gripping the roof's edge. “I… I don’t know what’s happening…”

I frown. Is this more of the human breaking through the robot? Whatever is going on he looks really unsettled. His body language screams… something. Not vulnerability, but not his usual “I can kill you with _this thumb_ and I won’t feel even a little bit bad about it!” energy either. He’s trembling lightly, his whole big body vibrating and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s shaking, or because he’s clenching his muscles so tightly that they’re experiencing involuntary spasms. Or both…

“Hey!” I try to call his attention to me. “Hey, look at me. Look at me, I’m here. You’re not in danger. You’re here with me. You’re safe!”

His masked face points at me, his shoulders tense. It looks almost like he’s about to launch himself off this roof’s edge into the night sky like a great black raven. 

“Safe?” he repeats after me.

I nod vigorously. “Yes. With me. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Not that I could even if I wanted to. “No one is. Not right now. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

“Safe with you?”

“Yes. Yes, Winter, you’re safe with me!”

Just then there’s a chance break in the volley of bangs and crackles from overhead and only because of this am I able to hear what he says next, likely to himself. “With you is the only place I’m ever safe…”

This last is a whisper snatched up by the wind and carried away spiraling over my head. I wish I could reach up and physically grab the words out of the cold air so I could tuck them into my pocket and keep them with me forever. 

His broad chest expands on a deep breath. He holds it for long seconds then lets it out slowly. I can hear it whistling through the slats in his mask that let air in for him to breathe. 

I touch his shoulder very lightly with my fingertips. “You okay?”

He nods. “Have you ever seen a firework?”

His sudden change in topic jolts me. From panic attack to small talk. Whoa, whiplash!

“Yea. But never this close. I can usually see some 4th of July ones far in the distance from our rooftop.”

“Our?”

“Well, sure. You’re joining me there practically every night now. It’s yours as much as it is mine at this point.”

He’s silent, mulling this over I think. I mean, I dunno, he could be annoyed at me lumping us together like this too, but somehow I don’t think he is. The depressive thought intrudes that it was probably years since he’s had anything that was truly _his,_ let alone something that he shared with someone else. I somehow doubt that he considers his guns and goggles treasured possessions.

“You’re not watching the fireworks." He observes in an almost scolding tone. 

I suppress a smile. It’s true. I’m watching him not the fantastic light show playing out in the dark sky above us. But he’s just so much more fascinating! But I look up to appease him. And decide that he was on the right track earlier with the small talk. “Have you seen many fireworks?”

“Explosions.” He answers as nonchalantly as if I’d asked him about the weather.

“Not sure that really counts!”

“You’re not taking photos.” His sudden subject change yanks me around yet again. But he’s right; I’m neglecting poor Giselle. As I unpack my equipment I can feel his eyes on me with something akin to interest, I think. 

“It’s what I thought of when I wanted to invite you here.”

I look up, my hands pausing their movements, the camera sinking into my lap. “What’s what you thought of?”

“That you’d love to take pictures of this.”

Oh. Well… wow. How considerate of him. How thoughtful. So he’s a robot? Incapable of independent thought and caring emotions? _Why_ did I ever believe that?!

“That means a lot to me that that’s the reason you wanted to invite me here.” I say softly.

“Does it?” He actually sounds unsure.

“Yes!”

That little frown line of emotion appears on his forehead. This time I think it might be of confusion. “Why?”

Out of anyone else’s mouth that question might have sounded condescending or like fishing for compliments or something, but with him I know that it’s genuine, that he really doesn’t understand and that he really wants to. “Because no one ever really pays attention to me enough to notice what I love.” 

“Why not?”

I shrug. “Guess I’m nothing special.”

“You are.” His voice is flat and monotone again. Oddly, and maybe contradictorily I’ve noticed that it seems to do that whenever he’s speaking with, what’s to him, high emotion. It’s almost like that’s the robot’s way of counteracting the human’s feelings. Making him express those human feelings in that robotic way.

I look at him. I really wish I could ask him why he thinks that. _How_ he thinks I’m special but on the one hand it feels inappropriate to ask that, and on the other I don’t want to overwhelm him. I guess maybe he thinks I’m special because he feels safe around me..? 

“You’re pretty special too, you know?!” I say softly. Then because I’m suddenly feeling too shy to look at him I raise my camera and start snapping pictures, although I can feel his begoggled eyes on the side of my face, and the force of that hidden gaze feels like it’s burning a hole into my cheek.

I try to let my usual enthusiasm for art and photography transport me away, but for some reason it doesn’t completely work today. I’m definitely not as all immersed and consumed by it as I usually am. A big part of that is of course the fact that I can still feel Winter’s eyes on me, but another part of me thinks it’s something else entirely. Something bigger; more significant. 

For the longest time photography was the only thing that could make me feel any semblance of happiness. The only thing that made me alive. But that’s not true anymore. It’s no longer the only thing. Now there’s this… friendship… or whatever it is, this tentative connection with another person who seems just as damaged as me, in different ways but the same ways too. And whatever this I that Winter and I share it brings me to life. And others have noticed; Mr. B for one. I don’t really know if as a whole I’d describe myself as _happier._ I think I’ve experienced happiness since meeting Winter. Also fear for my life, and general terror, as well as a whole slew of other emotions perpetuated by his dark side self, but that’s beside the point. 

The point being that I’m different now. I’ve changed. For the better? Don’t know yet. I think so. I mean most notably is the fact that I no longer drink like a fish. That seems to be a positive. And I have a friend now. But I’m still so inexplicably afraid. Of him. No longer that he’ll murder me for something as mundane as breathing wrong, or looking at him askance, but in an entirely different way now; a _worse_ way almost. Because he could leave. He could just up and leave me and never come back, and I would have no way of finding him, or of knowing what happened or why. And the worst part is that I’d always be left to wonder if anything we shared meant anything to him at all. Like it did to me. I know he’s said a few times now that it does… but I understand my own shitty mind enough to know that it will, without a doubt, make me question everything he ever said to me, if he disappears one day. 

In an attempt to banish these disparaging thoughts I lower the camera to focus more intently on the beautiful displays of showering, bursting multicolored sparks and stars. They really are too amazing to keep on viewing them through a lens! And they are _much_ too amazing to be forced to take a backseat to my melancholy musing!

After a few more moments of collecting myself I turn to look at Winter sitting beside me only to see that he’s already looking at me. Or still looking at me, I don’t know. His mouth mask is off. I hadn’t even noticed him remove it. 

He’s staring so intently, his mouth pressed into a single hard line, that I feel distantly like I should be frightened of this intensity, but oddly I’m not. It doesn’t feel like a murderous intensity; more like a questioning one.

An endless volley of bangs goes off over our head, violet lights exploding over and over again in sequence. 

“Your hair is purple.” He remarks and it’s such an absurdly random thing to say that I burst out laughing. I laugh and laugh feeling a lightness spreading through me like I’m being inflated with helium. I feel like I might actually float away at any second, up, up, up until I can twirl in the night sky amid the fiery sparks. When I look back at Winter he’s still watching me. And… there’s a smile on his face. An honest to goodness smile, not just the shadow of one. His lips are curves upwards, pushing dimples into his cheeks. And the smile doesn’t vanish when I see it. It stays on his face transforming it from its savagely chiseled hardness into something softer, more pensive; beautiful. The effect of that smile, or maybe just the sight of it almost bowls me over.

“I like your laugh.” He says matter-of-factly and now I’m really about to fall off this roof.

And _then;_ he’s trying to kill me today I swear, he reaches up and pulls off his glasses. My own eyes widen to the circumference of dinner plates as his come into view. I’m immediately lost in them, although I can’t tell what their color is. It changes in time with the fireworks, now bright green, now poppy red, now blue as a cornflower, now pink, now gold, purple, silver, orange like a flame. But no matter what color they flash; all that elusive emotion that I’ve been trying to see in him, its all there in his eyes, on full display for me. 

A series of bright white starbursts go off up in the sky and in their light which is almost as bright as it is during the day I can see that his eyes are blue. Blue like an ocean. With the yellowy-white of the sparks popping off above us reflected in them they remind me off looking up at the sun from underwater. Beautiful, is the only word I can think of to describe them. Also mesmerizing. Incredible. Amazing. Wonderful.

When I notice it my hand reaches out all by itself. I see his amazing sun-under-water eyes widen slightly but to my vaguely great amazement he doesn’t pull back or flinch or grab at my hand which suddenly is reaching out, clearly intent for his face. One of my fingers finds its mark, lightly tracing a pale line that follows the lower curve of his left eyebrow. A scar. My other hand goes to my own face tracing the scar I bear in the same exact spot right below my own left eyebrow. “We match.”

He nods slowly, the motion dislodged my finger and sending it sliding down past the outside of his eye to skew across his cheekbone. “I know.”

So he’s noticed before?! When? Probably one of the first times we met. Maybe even the first. Who knows? He appears to notice everything, cataloging it for potential usefulness later on. 

“Where did you get yours?”

He hesitates. “Someone threw a knife at me?” 

For some odd reason this sentence is not phrased like a statement as one would expect it to be. It comes out as a question, the slight unsure upswing at the end indicating some sort of hesitation on his part. And again I have to ask myself how someone could possibly forget having a knife thrown at their face?! “Someone?”

He shrugs. “How did you get it?” his question is accompanied by his hand, the human one, not the machine one, reaching out toward my face. He doesn’t just touch me though like he’s done so many times before now. He lets his fingers hover about an inch away from my face, from the scar, and waits, looking at me. I lean forward slightly allowing his fingers to make contact with the skin of my forehead. He copies me lightly tracing the scar with the tips of a single finger.

“Someone threw a plate at me.”

“Someone?” his parroting of me in both words and actions almost makes me laugh out loud. I have no idea if he’s doing it on purpose or not but I like it.

Unlike him though I can answer the question. “My mother. About three months ago. Thanksgiving actually.”

He frowns, still drawing that line. “Why does she hurt you?”

“Because I’m me.” I reply bitterly. “because I remind her of everything she lost.”

“Lost?”

I nod, turning my face away resentfully, dislodged his tracing finger. “That’s what I seem to represent to most people: what they’ve lost!”

“Not me.”

My eyes snap back to his. “You helped me find… something. I don’t know what yet.”

I swallow hard, a strange unidentifiable emotion ripping through me. “Something good?” I ask hoarsely. 

He studies me intently, those amazing eyes narrowing, lips tightening into a thin line. I’m on tenterhooks waiting for his answer. I don’t know why it should even mean that much to me how he answers that, but it does!

“Yes.”

The feeling that rushes through me at that one little word is something I can’t really describe. Relief, yes, in a way, because I was afraid that he would say no, or that he wasn’t sure. But there’s something else. Something… soft… and warm. And comforting. 

Very slowly and carefully I reach out and lightly brush my fingers over the back of his metal hand in gratitude. He flinches and pulls away, eyes wide. 

I flinch too, drawing my own hand into my chest, at once both wary and disappointed. Wary that I overstepped. Disappointed that he seems to be rejecting my touch.

But then he frowns, his eyebrows drawing inwards forming a little knot between his blue, blue eyes. His hand comes out, now lightly touching the back of mine in turn. His eyes are narrowed in concentration when he looks up at me.

“Your hands are cold.” He murmurs barely audible over the din above our heads.

I shrug lightly. “It’s a bit nippy out…”

That deep frowny furrow deepens. “They’re not supposed to be cold!” 

I tilt my head in question. What does that mean now? “Here.” Before I can react in any way he’s shifted his big body sideways on the ledge and has reached out now with his very large right hand to enfold both of mine in it. His long fingers close around my hands, engulfing both almost completely and enveloping my freezing digits in surprising warmth. His palm is calloused and rough but his grip surprisingly gentle. 

I look down at my hands in his, somewhat shocked. Not in a bad way, I don’t think, but… very, very surprised. Maybe a little bit instinctively nervous too but honestly… no. Not really. 

All of a sudden he lets go like my cold hands have freezer burned him, or something. “Sorry.” He says, voice gruff, the fingers that had just been holding and warming mine, curling into a tight fist on his thigh. “You don’t like to be touched.”

I’m actually flattered that he remembered me telling him that. With difficulty I swallow down the strange lump of emotion that rises in my throat at his pronouncement. “No… no this is fine.” I say my voice oddly hoarse. I give a little cough to clear this strange boulder that seems to be lodged somewhere near my larynx. “I’m… okay with that. I mean if you are?”

His face is intense as his eyes search mine. Then, very slowly, oh so, so very slowly, he reaches his hand out again, but doesn’t pick up mine this time. Instead he leaves his hovering palm up between us. An offer. A question. An invitation. 

Just as slowly as he did I reach my hands out again and place them back in the scorching heat of his. As soon as his fingers close around mine, curling them inwards into a tight little bow, it feels as if the heat from him washes through my whole body, not just my hands. I can feel dark color rising in my cheeks and am glad that the fireworks are over and that it’s dark and that he’s removed his night vision goggles so he probably can’t see my reaction. 

Just then his eyes flicker downwards and his other hand, the metal one, rises and slowly extends out towards me. I watch its progress and am somewhat surprised when it finds its destination pressed against the upper left side of my chest. For a second I don’t comprehend what he’s doing, but then I get it. He’s feeling my heartbeat. He heard it pick up when he held my hand, and now he’s feeling it racing away in my chest through my numerous layers of cold weather closing. Feeling it with his metal hand.

So much for hiding my blushing from him!

“Are you afraid?”

I swallow hard. Afraid is not the A word I’d use to describe my feelings right now. Awed maybe. Astonished. Amazed. Ardent. Addled.

Aroused?

No!

I tamp down on that thought as soon as it crosses my mind. What the fuck?! That feeling has no place in my head right now. Or ever. Nope! Nopety-nopety-nope!

I shake my head hard, partly to answer his question, partly to dislodge this stubborn notion that has now dug it claws into my brain and is making me flush more, my heart beating even harder and faster.

He frowns down at his palm. “Then why is your heart racing?”

Shit! I can’t tell him what’s going on in my head right now. **_I_** don’t even know what exactly that is. But if I know him he’s not gonna let this go.

So I do something stupid. Almost as stupid as the time I pushed him and then seconds later puked all over his shoes. I surge into him knocking his metal hand aside. I slam into his solid chest, wrapping my arms around his middle, breathing in the mixed smell of body odor and industrial material of his bulletproof vest. Never mind that we’re on the edge of a fucking building and I could have sent us tumbling into the empty air. But in a way me doing this, hugging him, feels like a plunge off an edge of a different kind. I’m falling off of something here, but I’m not afraid, like I would be if I fell off this roof…

I feel two hands, one solid and unforgivingly unyielding, and one softer but no less threatening at the moment close hard on my shoulders. His fingers dig into my skin almost to the point of pain, but something seems to be stopping him from crossing over that threshold. His entire body is stiff. “What are you doing?”

“Hugging you.”

I know I should probably move back before he decides to swat me like a bug but I somehow can’t bring myself to let go. When was the last time I ever actually hugged someone? Like actually hugged them? _Wanted_ to hug them? I’ve hugged Mr. B. a few times at the end of the school year but they were brief, little teacher-student appropriate hugs. I have no friends to hug. I’m sure I once upon a time hugged my parents but that was long ago and any childhood memories of affection I may have retained of them in normal circumstances have long since been eclipsed and replaced by new memories of abuse and neglect.

I’m brought out of my rather depressing thoughts by the feel of his crushing grip on my shoulders gradually loosening. Very, very tentatively one hand slides down from my shoulder to rest in the center of my back where it rubs up and down the tiniest bit. I smile into his chest at the distinct _there there_ feeling I’m getting from his careful pats. His metal hand rests at the back of my neck which could definitely be considered threatening under different circumstances but right now feels like he’s trying to comfortingly cradle me.

“Am I doing it right?” his low voice sounds in my ear, softer than I’ve ever heard it; quieter and gentler with the smallest hint of a tremor in it. Insecurity? Nerves? Some other deep emotion?

I nod vigorously. “So right!”

“Good.” He lays his head sideways on the top of my head, rubbing his cheek slightly back and forth, strands of my hair snagging in the light dusting of stubble on his chin.

I don’t know for how long we sit there like this. The fireworks have long since stopped, the whoops of the crowd down below slowly dissipating as the people disperse. Gradually I can feel Winter relaxing more and more into our embrace. His arms around me never waver and he never stops very lightly rubbing his cheek over the crown of my head. Like a cat.

As for me, I wish I could stay here like this forever. I never want to leave. Ever. Never want to stop feeling like this. So comforted. So secure. So protected. 

“Hey, Winter?” I finally mumble into his chest.

“Mm?” his answer is a questioning rumble vibrating beneath my ear.

“What if we leave?”

“Do you need to go?”

“No. Not me. Not now. I mean us. You and me. What if we just leave?”

“Leave here?” he pulls back and I tip my head up to look at him. For a second I lose my train of thought because I’m again distracted by his eyes and the fact that I can see them, although up here in the dark of the night they look black, or navy blue.

“Yes. But I don’t mean this rooftop, right this minute.” I explain when I find my thread again. “I mean this place, this city. These people who hurt us.”

I can feel him stiffening again. He puts me away from him, but not roughly, then crosses his arms tightly across his chest. His face is downturned and I can see that his jaw is tight, head shaking ever so slightly side to side.

“I can’t.”

“We could do it, you know. You and me. We’d make it. I mean, you’re like, super spy level amazing; you could protect us. And me, I can be sneaky. I can fight dirty if I needed to. We could do it.”

His head shakes harder, brown hair flopping into his face. “I can’t!”

“Why not?” I ask desperately, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Of course he can’t. Of course he won’t. Why would he want to? With me?

He swallows hard. “They won’t let me.”

“They don’t have to let you. We’ll just run. Right now. We’ll get you some less conspicuous clothes to wear and we’ll catch the next Greyhound outta town. We’ll go somewhere totally obscure. Milwaukee or… Mississauga or something. Whatever. Wherever. Anywhere.”

His eyes are closed. Squeezed shut tightly as if he’s trying to keep my words that are stabbing into his ears from penetrating through his eyeballs too.

“Please, Winter. Come on. Don’t let them hurt you anymore.”

“Kate!” 

He says it quick; explosively. I shut up. He so rarely says my name. I wait.

He turns toward me. His right hand reaches towards my face. Hesitates. Pulls back. Then reaches again. His calloused fingertips lightly graze my cheek. “I can’t. They’ll find us. Hurt us. Kill you. I can’t let that happen.”

“They won’t!”

“They will. You don’t know them. They won’t stop until they have.”

I bite my lip hard, feeling tears threaten. Maybe it’s not even about wanting him to run away with me specifically. I just want him to run away. I just want him away from them; want him safe!

A small smile crosses his lips. It’s not a happy smile but at the same time it represents the most emotion I’ve ever seen on his face. His thumb strokes a path down my cheek. “I’d go if I could. With you.”

“Really?” my voice is tiny; a sparrow’s peep.

“Yes.”

I smile waveringly, even as tears still threaten. “Maybe one day…”

“Maybe…”

I'm pretty sure he's just saying that to appease me but I also get the impression that even if he doesn't actually believe it'll ever happen, he still wishes that it could. And so give him another smile then turn, scooting just a bit closer to him, until my shoulder is leaning against his. Together we sit on the edge of the rooftop in silence, looking out at the city and the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. I like this chapter. I also don't. I feel like it's a bit of a mess. But its a cute mess. At least I think so. Oh well. Lemme know what you think if ya want.  
> Thanks you for reading!!!


	14. Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for implied torture/abuse. Also car accident and intent to injure/kill.  
> Is a Bucky chapter.   
> I hope you like it

Cold. Everything is cold. Or at least it’s supposed to be. On the outside he’s freezing. His fingers are numb. Face is numb. Feet. Toes. Ears. Numb. But inside he is alive. Heat is blooming deep in his chest. He can feel his own heartbeat, hear the blood pounding through him. Warmth. He is warm. Deep, deep inside. Something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Sometimes when they had a mission for him during the day he would feel the rays of the sun on the small bits of uncovered skin on his forehead. And he would feel its heat absorbing in his black clothes and dark hair. But it felt wrong; didn’t feel like this. After so long of being deprived of warmth any that he got from the sun felt like it was surely blistering his skin through the clothing, peeling it off. It made him itch and want to scratch uncontrollably. Heat and warmth was something wrong, something unnatural for him. Not meant to be felt by one called the _Winter_ Soldier. 

But then she had come along. And she had brought warmth. It had been a slow spreading of her warmth, which was probably why he had been able to get used to it so gradually. Why her warmth had never made him want to tear off his skin. She had warmed him up from the inside and the outside with her kindness, her touches, and her careful trust. 

Which was why it had felt so wrong last night when she had touched his hand and her fingers had been cold. He had pulled away, shocking her. But it hadn’t been because he didn’t want to feel her touch. It had been because it was cold and she wasn’t supposed to feel cold. He had felt a strange shivering inside him. A shivering that wasn’t from cold. He was used to those. In fact he no longer shivers from the cold he feels. He’s used to it by now. No, this shiver was fear, he thought. Fear that she was becoming like him, that him being with her so much was changing her into someone like him. Cold. But then he had understood that it was only a natural reaction brought on by the low temperatures and the biting wind. Her body was cold. Her being was still just as warm as always. And to his surprise he had discovered that they appeared to have traded temperatures because all of a sudden his own skin was scorching. So he had decided to do for her what she did for him. Warm her.

Then when he had found his arms filled with her so unexpectedly it was as if that warmth from inside her seeped right inside him. Into his blood, his bones, his heart and mind. And it had stayed. Like a little fire burning in his ribcage it had stayed. And for once now the daily Cryofreeze was bearable.

With an evil sounding hiss and two loud clunks the frosted glass door in front of his face slides to the side as the locks keeping him in, disengage. As always the air outside bites into his frozen skin with a vengeance. His chest which always tightens in here due to a mixture of claustrophobia and the thinner oxygen they pipe in to keep him subdued, loosens and expands on what always feels like the first deep breath he’s taken in ages. It takes a few moments for his eyes to open and by the time they do they’ve undone the straps around his wrist, ankles, and upper chest that keep him restrained in that upright reclined position he’s put into every night. He wonders vaguely what is going on. It’s much too early for it to be nightfall already. He knows that they think he sleeps, or is in some sort of suspended animation state during the Cryo, but he isn’t. At least not fully. He is always aware of time passing. Sometimes he sleeps, but it’s always his own mind putting his body to sleep, not the Cryofreeze chamber. He doesn’t think they know this, or if they do they don’t care. But if he wants to be he is aware during Cryo. Every night. Even all those years they kept him on ice when they first found him after… after what? He doesn’t remember, only remembers endless times spent frozen and cold. That was when the cold truly went inside him and never left. Until her.

When his cold muscles unlock he moves into the center of the room and stands there, still as stone while the handlers buzz around him outfitting him with layers of bulletproof material, guns and knives and other weapons. One laces up his boots. Another slips on the mask and goggles. Another straightens the straps that cross over his chest, pulling them tight. Constricting. Constraining. Bound. That’s what he is. Nothing but a bound animal. Controlled. Handled.

Another senior handler delivers the mission brief. His assumption was right. A daytime mission. They show him a picture of a large, dark skinned man. Bald. An eyepatch over his left eye. They show him pictures of the man’s car. They tell him this man is currently attempting to evade their forces. It’s now his mission to stop him. Stop. Not kill.

Kill. The word scrapes through his tired brain. He doesn’t want to kill. But he has to. It’s the mission. Orders. He can’t disobey orders.

Before he knows it he’s straddling his bike and riding through the watery sunshine of the day. His mind is clear, his mission set, target ingrained in his brain. But even so… he’s distracted. By her. Thoughts of her. Kate. It didn’t used to be like this. Even though he always remembered her since the first time he saw her he was always able to put her out of his mind during missions. Focus on the mission. Complete it. Then find her. But now… now all he wants to do is finish the mission as fast as he can so he can go to her. Even though rationally he knows that she won’t be at the roof yet. It’s not night time. But maybe he can go to her house and just see her though the window. He won’t go inside again. She’s asked him not to. Said it scared her. He doesn’t want to scare her. But he wants to see her. To know she’s alright. And safe. And to feel that which her presence always brings him. Calm.

But first he has to finish the mission. He tries to put her from his mind. But it doesn’t work. He can’t decide if he wishes it would or not. On the one hand he misses the simplicity of it, the lack of guilt. Because when he thinks of her and of what he’s doing he feels something twisting his guts. He thinks it’s guilt. Because she wouldn’t like what he’s doing. She’d be afraid of him, if she knew. And he doesn’t want her to be afraid of him anymore.

But maybe this is better. He used to not feel anything on these missions. Used to not care whether it was right or wrong. Now he cares. He knows its wrong. Cares that it is. Doesn’t want to do it. But has to anyway. But is it better to know that he is a bad man doing bad things and be powerless to stop it, or to not care at all? Maybe the fact that he now cares makes him good? Or at least not as bad? Kate said that it wasn’t his fault what he does; that they made him? But if they made him bad then how could he be anything else? Even if she says he is good? If she makes him be good? _Want_ to be good!

The bike parks in an alley. The fake police cars with the Hydra agents that are chasing his target have been instructed to lead the man to this intersection. He waits. Listening. His heightened senses will be able to pick up the sound of the speeding cars long before they appear racing through the thick packed traffic. He stands out of sight holding the grenade launcher.

When he hears them he’s ready. He steps out into the street ignoring all the cars that swerve around him, honking. The black car is barreling straight at him. Even at the high speed he can see the scars of countless bullets in the shiny black lacquer, and the shattered windows and windshield. He sees the man through the spiderwebbed glass. Sees the eyepatch. The confounded look of a mixture of anger and confusion and fear when the man sees him standing there unmoving and unflinching in the path of his car.

The man is good. He’s lost the tail that was chasing him. Good. But he knows he is better. Because he’s been made to be better. To be the best. He raises the grenade launcher and without a thought pulls the trigger. He feels nothing and everything. The surge of power pulling through his arm as the grenade shoots toward its target. No emotion. No feeling. Then as the grenade finds its home and the car explodes, flipping nose over end and coming straight at him in flames whose heat he feeling but doesn’t, he hears a scream. A specific scream. _Her_ scream. But its not coming from the surroundings. There’s lots of people screaming there. No. Her scream sounds inside his head. It’s the first thing he ever heard from her, the first thing that alerted him to her existence. That night.

As he steps smoothly out of the way of the smoldering wreckage that crashes into the tarmac where he just stood and goes sliding past him with a screeching of metal, his eyes cut upwards. To the rooftop across the street. Where she was that night. A different night. A different rooftop. A different mission. And he was a different man. He knows that now. In this moment he believes it.

He stands looking at the rooftop for seconds to long. Seeing her. Like he did that night. A slim shape on the roof with a wild cloud of hair around her head. He wishes she was there now because then he could see her. But hes also glad that she’s not there because then she would see what he just did, and what he now has to do, and then she would run away from him in fear. Again. Just like that night. When he remembers his mission, his body takes over, carrying him to the smoking remains of the armored vehicle. It’s lying on its side, flames crackling beneath the bent and twisted frame. He uses his metal arm to wrench the door away, ready to reach in and drag the one eyed man out of the wreck. But… he's gone. Where the injured body should be there is only a hole in the ground, leading to the sewers.

The one eyed man has escaped.

A flash of relief spikes through him.

His head rises. Looks around. There’s people. Lots of people. More than he’s normally allowed to leave as witnesses. But he hasn’t gotten any orders about not leaving behind any today. So they’re not his problem. 

Without preamble he jumps right into the hole the one eyed man somehow dug into the street. He lands, like the man did, in the sewer pipes that twist beneath the city. If they ask he can tell them that he tried to pursue the man into the sewers but that he got away there. When really he has no intention of doing that whatsoever. His mission was to blow up the car and extract the man from the car. He did. The man escaped. He received no concrete instructions on what to do if that happened. So now he’s free to do what he wants. And what he wants to do is be with her. 

With Kate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So honestly I don't think I'm writing what hydra does to bucky right. I don't actually think they put him in cryo every night but somehow my brain latched on to that and ran with it and it fits here. I guess maybe a lot of things don't make sense here if one were to consider marvel canon but I've tried my best to explain how it ties into my story. Also anyone who may have read my other Loki/OC story may be surprised that this story seems to actually sort of follow the official timeliness because the loki one decidedly did not! But I can tell you right now that even though I'm doing my best at the moment to follow the events of CA:TWS and even lead sort of into CA:CW it will eventually branch out and deviate heeeeavily from what's canon. Buuuut what does that imply??? Soon after WS tries to assassinate Fury he comes out of his mind control, doesn't he?! Oooooh! Excitement ahead.


	15. We Keep This Love in a Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes  
> But it's the only thing that I know  
> When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes  
> It is the only thing that makes us feel alive
> 
> We keep this love in a photograph  
> We made these memories for ourselves  
> Where our eyes are never closing  
> Hearts are never broken  
> And time's forever frozen still
> 
> So you can keep me inside the pocket of your ripped jeans  
> Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet  
> You won't ever be alone, wait for me to come home
> 
> And if you hurt me  
> That's okay baby, only words bleed  
> Inside these pages you just hold me  
> And I won't ever let you go  
> Wait for me to come home
> 
> Love can heal, loving can mend your soul  
> And it's the only thing that I know, know  
> I swear it will get easier,  
> Remember that with every piece of you  
> Hm, and it's the only thing we take with us when we die
> 
> You can fit me inside the necklace you got when you were sixteen  
> Next to your heartbeat where I should be  
> Keep it deep within your soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of planned death and murder. Mentions of implied torture. Angst.  
> Conflict.  
> Also I love that Ed Sheeran song in the summary. I think it fits really well with these two, hence also the title. I know there isn't really any kind of mention of love yet but like its implied. And obviously they both don't really know what to do with that yet. But I can tell you right now its not gonna happen while A) he's still the Winter soldier, and B) she's still in high school. Although I will say this here again, KATE IS NOT UNDERAGE. she IS younger than him, especially when you consider his 100 year old ex-frozen, supersoldierness, but she is not a minor. I think I've explained this in the story once before but it'll be explained again in a bit more detail in an upcoming chapter. I don't advocate relationships between minors and adults.  
> I do advocate slow burns. Clearly.  
> Enjoy.

I don’t know what brings me to the roof during the day but here I am. I got home after school, did all my chores, received no further instructions from my mother and decided to use the term paper excuse again and ducked out. I have absolutely no idea what is going on with her. She hasn’t yelled at me, or hit me, or thrown anything at me in over 48 hours now. In fact she barely looks at me. It’s like she’s afraid of me all of a sudden…

That bruise on her face is only getting worse, darkening to almost black now that its had time to settle. I really wonder what happened there, and what my dad used, and what set him off, and if I should be afraid! Or the inverse? Did he somehow find out what she does to me and retaliated, warning her never to do it again or else? Is that why she seems suddenly afraid to even look at me wrongly? But like, why? Why would my dad suddenly give a shit? I mean, I don’t actually know if he was aware over the past 12 years what she does to me, but I just always assumed that he was. It’s not like we hid it. He was just never there. So where is this sudden influx of fatherly affection coming from? What caused it? _Is_ it even because of me? 

I really don’t know. Nothing makes sense.

I’ve decided not to stress about it.

So now I sit on my rooftop, in the bright, cool sunlight for once, feeling that sun fight to produce some rays of warmth, and shake off the whole of the season in preparation for Spring. I’m sitting against the wall of the stair-house, having temporarily dismantled my tarp tent so the sunlight can reach me. In my lap is a freshly developed pile of photographs that I’m currently sorting through. I finally got around to bringing Giselle in to school today and developing the pictures that have been gestation in her memory file since mid December. Afterwards Mr. B and I went through them, and there were a lot that I forgot about even taking. I guess my life’s been a bit hectic and distracted lately.

Most notable was the picture of Winter sitting on that itsy bench in the Lincoln Park Statue Plaza. I took that and immediately forgot about it. But there he is, right next to me, suited and booted, masked and bespectacled. Dark and dangerous, lounging like a black midnight lion on that bench beside me. Mr. B had raised his eyebrows when he saw the photo.

“Who’s this?”

“Oh,” I’d said. “That was just some random dude I met in the park that night. He said he was coming from a costume party. Sounded pretty drunk. But I thought his getup was really cool so I asked him for a snapshot.”

I had no idea why I’d lied, really. It just seemed like too much to explain. And honestly, I like the idea of Winter as my secret. Not just the knowledge of his super secret weapon assassin-ness secret. But as my friend secret.

Mr. B had shrugged and shuffled the photo to the bottom of the pile and kept on looking. But later on I’d dug it out and set it right on top of the stack. And I’m looking at it again now, studying it. This is proof, isn’t it? That he’s real. Like really real?! I think back to how I felt back then; still deathly afraid that he was coming after me to kill me. Scared of every move he made, ready to pee myself when he touched me. And now… now I want him to touch me, actively seek it out. I want to be around him, spend time with him. I wanted to run away with him last night, for God’s sake! Part of me still rebels at this mentality. He’s a killer! How can I be so ardently fascinated with a killer? How can I be so attached to someone I know not only kills people, but someone who I’ve actually watched kill people? What does that say about me?!

But I know, _I_ _know,_ that that’s not him. Not really. Who he is, is the person who spends time with me. He’s not the killing machine! I smile softly as I think about how his strangely dual sided personality can be perfectly described if you split his name in half. Winter Soldier. With me he’s Winter. The rest of the time he’s Soldier. Winter: cold and distant, but beautiful and soft. Dangerous sure, but also gentle and calm. Soldier: deadly, designed to kill, made to obey, to fight, to hurt, laser focused and intense. 

I wish I knew how to help him!

A tingling sensation in the nape of my neck makes me look up. And there he is, just as if my thoughts had called out to him, summoning him here. He stands at the edge of the rooftop; our rooftop, watching me. His goggles and mask are off. A smile crosses my face. “Hey.” 

“Hi.” He’s not smiling in return.

“Are you okay?”

“Why are you here?”

I shrug. “Felt like it. You?” 

He doesn’t answer but comes over and sits beside me. I take that as a positive sign. 

I inch a little bit closer, not as close as I was last night, where I’d leaned my shoulder against his, but closer than I would have been comfortable with not too long ago. I go back to sorting through my photographs.

He watches; I can feel his eyes on my busy hands over my shoulder. “I was sent to kill someone today.” 

My hands still in my lap. “Did you?” I don’t look up, my voice wobbling slightly although I try to hide the tremor.

“No.”

I feel relief.

“He got away.”

Oh. I look up at him, brushing the hair out of my face. “Who is he?”

He shrugs. “They don’t tell me.”

“They just sent you to kill him?”

He nods. 

“And you have to obey?”

Nod.

“Why? What do they have on you that they can make you do whatever they want?”

“Everything.”

I turn my body to face his more. I have a feeling that whatever is coming has the potential to be important. Monumental even. But I can’t even begin to prepare myself for what it might be. “What do you mean, everything?”

“Me. Who I was. Where I came from. My name. Everything.”

“But how can they do that? How could they take that away from you?”

“I don’t know!” his shoulders tighten, his voice becoming clipped. His posture screams defensive. 

“Hey, hey, I believe you! I’m not doubting you. I’m just wondering what makes them so powerful that they could steal all that from a person. I’m not asking because I think you’re full of shit, or something. I believe you!” I try to assure him because it’s true, I really do believe him. And as horrible as the forced murder is I’m really not judging him for it because I know that it’s forced. _Them_ I’m judging the hell out of, not that they’d care if they knew, but that’s a different ballgame…

“You do?” those beautiful blue eyes soften in confusion. 

“Of course I do.”

“Why?” 

“You’ve never lied to me.”

He’s silent, staring at his own hands, appearing to think about it. “But I don’t know anything.”

“So?”

“I can’t lie to you about what I don’t know.”

“True. But the things you do know you haven’t lied about. You’ve always told me your truth.”

“I don’t know what my truth is anymore.” He whispers softly, his voice shaking. I duck my head the tiniest bit so I can see his eyes which are hidden under his hair hanging in his face. They’re shiny and wet. My heart constricts.

On a whim I reach out and place my hand, palm up on his knee. An offer.

His glistening eyes rise to stare at it before he slowly places his own in mine. I smile and carefully lace our fingers together. 

We sit in silence. After a while his thumb starts to draw little half circles across my knuckles. I peer up at him to find his gaze fixed intently on the horizon. I’m not entirely sure he’s consciously aware of what his thumb is doing. 

“They’ll make me go back.” Is the first thing he says after an indeterminable amount of minutes passed hand-in-hand in comfortable silence. It takes me a few seconds to catch up to what he’s trying to tell me.

“Back to kill the man?”

“Yes.”

I sigh. “I hate that.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I look up at him, then down when I feel a strange tugging on my pinky finger. He’s still holding onto my hand but has hooked his little finger with mine. Pinky promise. A small smile flits across my face.

“I know you’re not gonna hurt me. But I hate that you’re still being forced to hurt others.”

“Me too.”

“Maybe we _should_ run away.”

“We can’t.”

“Is there no one who could help us?”

He’s silent. Staring into the sun. I watch him for about a minute before I sigh defeated, then lean in, letting my head rest on his shoulder. For a second I feel him stiffen, then he relaxes. “I hate this.” I say again.

“I’m sorry.” Monotone. But his voice is trembling.

I squeeze his hand. “Not you. Them. And what they’re doing to you. Making you do.”

“I hate it too.”

A few more minutes pass. I think. I still can’t fully reconcile myself with the fact that I’m sitting here with someone who has literally blood on his hands. That I am _holding_ one of those exact bloodstained hands right this very second. Someone who just confessed to me that he tried to kill a man in the past hour, and who will likely actually succeed in killing said man sometime in the next 24. But I know that he’s not doing it off his own free will. After I’d first figured that out I thought that whoever controls him had something on him that they were blackmailing him with. Like they were threatening him with deportation or holding his sister hostage or something. But now more and more I’m starting to believe that it’s something worse; something darker. That this goes even deeper. I think it’s quite literally his free will that they’re holding hostage. His mind. That he’s brainwashed in some way. And the reason he doesn’t remember things isn’t because of trauma or something. It’s because they’ve _made_ him forget. Somehow. Like with torture or science or both. So how can I blame him for the blood on his hands? But at the same time how can I not? It’s still someone’s blood. 

I guess the difference is that even though his hands put it there, someone else behind the curtain was pulling the strings. His strings. He’s just their puppet. That’s all he is, all they want him to be. Their perfect little murder puppet. But he’s so much more! The problem is that I don’t think he believes that. I bet _they make_ him not believe that!

Well, then it’s my job to show him that he isn’t what they tell him to be. He’s not. He’s so much more and so much better! And I’m going to prove it to him!

“Hey, look.” I pull both of us out of our respective funks with my forcedly cheerful exclamation. When his head turns I brandish the photographs I’d just been looking at. “I got them developed.” 

With his free hand he takes the photos of the fireworks and lays then carefully on his knee. He sorts through them taking his time to study each one, an action that makes my heart squeeze inside my chest, because he’s acting like this, my favourite hobby (arguably my only hobby now that binge drinking is off the table) matters! That it’s something that deserves not only his attention but also his time, something that I know he has precious little of.

“I like this one.” He says laying a photograph of a purple Catherine’s Wheel on top of the stack. It reminds me of how he remarked on my hair yesterday. And how fitting that he’s chosen this one, given both its name and mine. 

“It’s called a Catherine’s wheel.” I tell him with a grin, looking up at him from where my head is still leaning against his shoulder. 

He looks back at me, one corner of his mouth tilting upwards, a dimple forming in his cheek. That only makes me smile harder.

“Will you show me how it works?”

“How what works?”

“Your camera.”

He takes yet another piece of my heart prisoner with that request. Because once again he’s proving to me that, to him, the things I care about matter enough that he wants me to tell him about them. And so I do. I show him Giselle, taking her apart carefully, explaining concepts and terms like lighting, shutter speed, flash, ISO, aperture, exposure, focus, and white balance. I show him the different settings, the zoom and flash. I let him look through it and press buttons as he tries to bring the skyline into focus.

“Feels like I have a bionic eye to go with my bionic arm.” 

I called his arm that once a few weeks ago! The fact that he remembers makes me laugh out loud in wonder and joy. I think it’s been ages since I’ve truly laughed like this, a full on belly laugh, one that comes from the soul. Which is probably a good thing because my laugh is kind of obnoxious; loud and snorting, sounding not unlike a dying donkey. Yeah it’s probably good that I don’t laugh much! When my inner donkey has brayed itself back into silence I turn to him, slightly embarrassed, only to find that he’s turned my camera on me.

“What are you doing?”

“I really like your laugh.”

He said the same thing last night, but that laugh wasn’t nearly as full on insane as this one was. “Pfff. You’re crazy.”

He shrugs. Then hands me my camera back. “Thank you for showing me.”

I melt just a bit. “Thank you for letting me show you.”

He sighs. “I should probably go.”

I look at my watch. It’s almost dinnertime. Don’t want to provoke her by missing that, not when she’s being so suspiciously docile. “Yeah, me too. Things to do.”

“Me too.”

 _Things to do. People to kill…_ but I don’t say it. It wouldn’t be fair. “Here,” I say, holding out the picture of the Catherine’s Wheel. “I want you to have this.”

He looks down at the photo, then up at me. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Something to remind you of me and that there’s someone out there who cares about you.”

His jaw clenches tightly at the same time as his fingers do, crinkling the picture slightly. “I’ll never forget!” his voice is heavy, laced with some sort of hidden meaning but I don’t pry, even though I want to. Chances are his answer will only depress me.

I watch him carefully fold and tuck the photo into his inside pocket, taking care not to rumple it further. “Thank you.”

I smile at him. “Will I see you later?”

“Maybe.”

“Good enough for me. I’ll bring food either way.”

Another crooked smile crosses his face swiftly, bringing out that dimple for just a second. Then he springs to his feet, running towards the edge of the roof where the balcony is two stories down, affixing his mask to his face as he goes. I watch him vault over the edge out of sight, waving inanely, even though I know he’s not looking back and therefore can’t see me.

As soon as he’s gone I feel desolation spread through my chest again but I try to push it back down. I’ll see him again in a few hours. Maybe.

With a heavy sigh I move to collect my things, which is when I notice it. I frown, leaning closer. When did he do that? It must have been earlier when I was lamenting the fact that there was no one who could help us hide from _them_ if we were to actually run away together. After that part of our conversation both of his hands were always busy. And since I was holding his flesh hand in mine he must have done this with his metal one. Of course it was the metal one actually; his other hand wouldn’t be capable of literally scraping something into the weather softened gravelly cement of the rooftop. 

But what does this mean? And did he consciously write this or was it an unconscious thing? Why didn’t he just tell me it out loud? Planning on investigating this further later on, maybe even asking him about it, I raise my camera and take a quick picture of the mysterious message he’s scratched into the crumbly old concrete. What does it mean? What is it? A word? An acronym? A clue? A chance?

Six capital letters spelling out a single word.

_S H I E L D_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seeds of coming conflict have been sown. Muahahahahaaaa! Thank you for reading. I hope you liked!


	16. I Need You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of abuse, drug use, underage drinking, and thoughts of suicide.  
> This is a heavier chapter, as the trigger warnings above may have indicated. Read with caution.  
> A lot happens here and I have a feeling that a fair few of you might hate me after this.  
> But I luuurves you all.  
> Enjoy? I guess... or... dont? Suffer?

When he comes that night he brings with him the distinct smell of sweat and gunpowder. I take this to mean that he has completed his mission, and my stomach turns over at the thought. I don’t say anything though. It wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t help his guilt, and it wouldn’t help my roiling emotions to dwell on this further. Short of kidnapping him there’s nothing I can do here. Except leave. That would be the moral thing to do, the sane thing. But I already know I won’t. Because I’m too selfish. I need him too much. 

He seems strangely keyed up tonight too. Jittery. On edge. Always looking around like he’s expecting he’s been followed. His nerves ratchet up my own but I do my best to hide them, not wanting him to get any more riled up. 

He eats the chili cheese dog I brought him without comment. It seems to quieten him somewhat, relaxing his hostile body language enough for me to feel comfortable to scoot in next to him. After a while he reaches out, wraps long fingers around my upper arm and pulls me carefully even closer, until our shoulders are touching again.

I want to ask about the cryptic scratched message from earlier but decide to save that conversation for next time, not wanting him to get more agitated.

“Are you ok?” I finally ask carefully, when I can’t take it anymore.

His jaw clenches. He shrugs.

“Can I do anything to make it better?”

His face softens as he turns to me and touches a metal finger lightly to my brow, tracing a path across it, his touch leaving behind a tingling path that I can’t decide if it burns hot or cold. “You being here already makes it better.”

I smile. “But specifically? Anything I can do?”

“Tell me something. I like hearing you talk.”

And so talk. I tell him random stories to distract him. Sitting, leaning half against the wall, half against him, reveling in the fact that he said he likes to hear me speak, when I was once so sure that my rambling just annoyed him. He listens intently, and I can tell that he’s invested in my random stories even though a part of his mind is still distracted and far, far away. At some point his hand reaches out again, apparently all by itself, and picks up mine placing them both in his lap. His fingers copy what mine did yesterday, clumsily entwining with my own. I smile, warmth spreading through me, originating from out joined hands.

I’m just in the midst of a thrilling anecdote about an absolute asswipe of a guy I knew in middle school, who fancied himself a big, tough bully but was actually just a whiny, cowardly little bitch boy, when it happens; when everything goes swiftly to shit. He’s listening intently to my story, seeming more relaxed now, lips occasionally twitching with those little hints of smiles that I now recognize as common on his face.

“And then this absolute toolbag comes waltzing up; his name is James, and he says that I shouldn’t…” I break off my eyes on Winter who has just gone deathly still, the color leeching from his face, muscles locked. His hand is in a death grip around mine. “You okay?”

His eyes go to mine and their icy blue is suddenly deep and fathomless. “James…” he says softly.

“Yeah? He was a little dickhead…”

“James…” he repeats looking away from me to frown intently at the ground. 

“You can’t possibly know him?” I ask incredulous. That would be impossible! I haven’t even seen the guy in six or seven years.

He shakes his head absently, still repeating the single word in a whisper.

“But the name means something to you?” I ask even though it’s obvious it does.

He looks back up at me, eyes narrowed in speculation, then gives the smallest little nearly imperceptible nod.

“Could it…” I pause considering the wisdom of voicing the thought that just occurred to me. “Could it have been your name? You know, before?”

His eyes snap to mine suddenly burning with some kind of blue fire. He stares at me intently and I stare back trying to mentally assign the name to him. It doesn’t really fit; he doesn’t look like a _James,_ but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I lean forward slightly. “James?” I say softly watching his eyes for any kind of subconscious recognition or reaction.

He rips his hand from mine and surges to his feet suddenly to tower over me. I shrink back instinctively, my heart speeding up.

“No!” he snarls. “Stop. That’s not my name. It doesn’t mean anything to me!”

I crouch carefully on the floor, cautiously gauging his mood which is more erratic than I’ve ever seen it. “But think about it…” I say softly. “Even if it wasn’t your name it meant something to you. Why else would you have reacted towards it like you just did? Maybe you knew someone named James once?”

“It’s not my name!” he’s almost shouting now and I cringe slightly but don’t back down. My heart is drumming a wild tattoo on my ribs. _Don’t push him too far!_

“But what if it is?”

“It doesn’t matter!” he barks.

“How can you say that?”

“Because I don’t have a name.”

“But you must have had one once…”

“It doesn’t matter!” Now he’s shouting. “It doesn’t matter what my name might have once been. I’m not gonna get a name. I don’t _need_ a name. And I don’t need you!” And with that he turns away, lopes easily to the edge of the roof and swings himself over it, dropping from view.

I remain frozen in place, my entire insides quivering and liquefied from him yelling at me. 

A loud _crash_ unfreezes me. I lurch to the rooftop ledge, leaning over, dreading what I might see those ten stories down. Him, spread eagled and broken on the pavement… 

But he's not lying down there. He's not sitting there either, or standing. What there is, is an old rusted Buick, its front window smashed and its roof completely caved in from a heavy body dropping onto it from height. The Winter Soldier is nowhere to be seen.

  
After that he doesn’t come back. The first three nights I go back to the roof and wait all night, but he never shows. 

After I waste half of the fourth night waiting in vain I give up and hit the streets. I no longer sleep. Or eat. I prowl through the city feeling like crap. I skip school, not caring about any consequences. I avoid home when I can, act as if nothing is wrong when I can’t. Not like she’d notice or care. I unplug the phone from the wall so the school can’t call to report my truancy. Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s not like anyone else ever calls. I rip up the letter they send on the fifth missed day. The hours I’m supposed to be in school are spent combing the city. I keep hoping that I’ll run into him somewhere, sometime. Either because he’s stalking me again, or randomly, accidently on one of his missions of murder and mayhem, like the first time. But I don’t. And I don’t get any indications that he’s following me either. 

So he’s left me too. I don’t know why that should bother me so much, I mean it’s not like we were bosom buddies or something, but still. I thought he… cared? That doesn’t seem like the right word when I apply it to him. Gave a crap? Slightly better.

But then I replay our last few meetings in my mind and… it meant so much to me. And I felt like we were getting closer, like I was getting through to him. But I guess not. I guess it was all in my mind. A part of me worries that something's happened to him, but the neurotic part of my brain, otherwise known as Bad Kate takes over completely in my renewed bouts of depression and tells me that he’s abandoned me. Because I am a piece of shit. And I don’t matter. To anyone.

And honestly I’ve got only myself to blame. I pushed him, I pushed that whole name issue and he took it the wrong way and took off. And now I’m alone. Again. And I feel even more alone than I did before because now I feel like I’ve lost a friend. Even if that friendship was almost decidedly one sided.

I can’t do this! Why? Why always me? What is wrong with me? How horrible must I have been in a previous life to deserve this in this one?! Why do I push everyone away? Why do I seem to just naturally _repel_ them?

That old self hatred that in the past weeks has slowly dwindled now comes roaring back full force. And with it comes the desire for my old destructive habits. Because what in the hell is the point of bettering myself when I have no one to want to be better for?

Good Kate pipes up trying to tell me that I could want to be better for myself. Ha! Bad Kate clocks her, suckerpunching her K.O. with one hit. Fat chance! Why would I even want to do that? It’s been made abundantly clear that everyone out there hates me, and that includes myself. I think I hate myself most of all!

I want a drink. I want several drinks. I want the floaty lightness, the numbness, the fake good feelings. I want my painkillers. I crave that slippage of time. Every second alone now feels like an eternity. I want at least a few hours to pass just a bit quicker. I’m going insane!

I resist it for a week. Then I decide that if nothing else matters then this doesn’t either. So at home I go through my savings. There’s less than what I might have hoped. Except that I’ve been wasting money recently buying food for myself and Winter almost every night. And for what? To do something nice for him? Fat load of good that did me. For me, because I wanted to take care of myself for once? Whatever. I don’t deserve it anyway. 

In the end I only have enough to satisfy one of my vices. The pills or the booze. What do I crave more right now? Fake happiness or fake numbness? What a bastard of a choice.

When the idea occurs to me I laugh out loud. A cynical laugh, brimming with self loathing. I’m going to steal. Simple as. I’ll take one of my dad’s bottles out of his sacred cabinet. Or two. Or three. Or all of them. Maybe I’ll slug ‘em all down and die of alcohol poisoning. Wouldn’t that be a blast?! I don’t even feel my perfunctory misplaced guilt that my mother may get blamed for my thievery like she was that first time. So he beats her up again, so what? And so she beats _me_ up again in retaliation. So. Fucking. What? Maybe she’ll actually kill me this time, like I thought she would at Thanksgiving… No, don’t go there. I’m already in a bad enough headspace. No need to make it even darker.

With my plan fully hatched I stuff all the money I have in my pocket then head downstairs. But as soon as I hit the bottom landing I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Both my parents are there. Together. My father is supporting my mother’s arm while she slips on her second high heel. She’s giggling. He kisses her temple. And as if that isn’t weird enough they’re both in evening wear. A little black dress and a suit and tie. Combed. Her hair in beachy waves. Both smelling nice. She’s wearing makeup. His shoes are shiny. They’re smiling at each other. Am I in an alternate reality right now? Am I dreaming? Who are these pod people?

“Oh, hey Kate.” My father says jovially like the last time he spoke to me wasn’t like three, four years ago now. “You’re mom and I are going out. Business dinner. My boss is bringing his wife so he suggested the rest of us do too.”

“Uh-huh.” I say, too stunned to think of anything else.

“Don’t go out now; it’s almost 7. And don’t throw any crazy parties while we’re gone either, young lady. You hear?” he says with a big grin directed at me.

Is he high? “Uh-huh.”

“There’s some money for pizza on the counter.” My mother says, straightening up, fluffing her hair, and grabbing her purse. “We’ll probably be late. Don’t wait up.”

“Uh-huh.”

They wave regally at me like they think they’re the royal couple or something, then they tumble out the door, their laughter floating in to me, mocking me with its impossibility. I hear the car start and die three times before it finally catches and backs out of the driveway. I’m still standing on the bottom stair, gawking at the door like an imbecile.

What. Just. Happened?

Reality is officially skewed. 

And five seconds later I am officially over it. Whatever. If they suddenly wanna play House or Happy Family then they can damn well do that without me! Let them adopt a kid if they want to try again. I’m unavailable for the role of perfect offspring! 

Suddenly I’m angry. Angrier than I think I’ve ever been. How dare they, after _everything,_ all the bruises, neglect, starvation, ignoring, abuse, and abandonment just suddenly act like none of it ever happened. And even if it’s just for one night? No! Fuck! That!

I’m gonna show them that I am not down with this! Whatever this just was.

I march straight to the sofa; her sofa. I gather up all her pill bottles in the front of my shirt which I lift to form a pouch. Without thinking I go straight to the bathroom, one by one untwist the child proof safety caps and dump the pills into the toilet. I want to save the painkillers but there’s only one left. Figures. Whatever! With a triumphant grimace of a smile I pull the flush and watch her arsenal swirl down the drain.

_Take that, Mom!_

Next on the list is the liquor cabinet. I save the bottles of Vodka, Rum, and Gin, each about half empty. They’re gonna hit me the hardest. I grab the bottle of brandy, his favourite, by the neck and smash it over the table. Honey brown liquid splatters the walls as an explosion of glass rattles through the kitchen. Next I go for the tequila, and send Air Mexicana on a flight straight out the window. More glass explosions. _Adiós muchachos!_

_Take that, Dad!_

Methodically I take the rest of the bottles out and drop them one by one, letting their befuddling insides wash over my feet. When no bottles remain I take the cheap boxed wine and the bottles of off brand beer out of the fridge and pour all of that shit down the drain, neatly lining up the empty bottles next to the sink. Glass crunches under my shoes as I walk out of the kitchen, without looking back, my three bottles clutched tight against my chest.

_Fucking take that, the both of you!_

I wind up in the parking lot of a gas station where I know the seedy kid who sells me painkillers hangs out sometimes. With any luck he’ll be there. I’ve already got a good buzz going, having chugged all the gin even before I left the house and dropping the empty bottle in a withered rosebush beside our front door. 

I’m in luck. The kid is there. He looks even greasier than I remember, his face more pimple than skin. But I’m not here to judge his appearance. I’m here to buy from him. 

He recognizes me even though its been almost two months. “I only got two left!” he says in way of greeting.

Shit! With the one I got from my mother’s stash and his two, that’ll give me three. Obviously. Enough for a bit of numbness but not the full on void of feeling I want right now.

“Seriously? Only two?” I question, just in case he’s trying to low ball me or something. “I’ve got money!” I brandish my wad of cash.

He shrugs. “Just two. But I could give you something heavier if you want?”

Heavier? I’m aware of the dangerous path I’m about to step on and I hesitate. But then I remember that there’s literally nothing for me off this path anymore and that I no longer fucking care. I just need to forget! “Like what?”

“You wanting an upper or a downer?”

“Downer. Very much a downer!”

“Then I can offer you some prime ass Dope.”

“Heroin?” My heartbeat picks up speed in my chest. Shit! This _is_ heavy stuff.

“Look at you, Ms. Expert!” he sneers.

I swallow hard. I am Alice in front of the rabbit hole. If I do this will I ever find my way back up? Do I even fucking want to? There’s nothing for me up here. But maybe down there I’ll find my perpetually grinning cats, my Mad Hatters, my tea parties, and pipe smoking caterpillars. Maybe down there I can actually swim in the ocean of my own tears. Maybe down there I can kill my evil queen of hearts. Or maybe she’ll behead me. Who cares?!

“How much?” my voice is hoarse.

“How much you got?”

“67 bucks.” I hold out my money.

He snatches the crumpled bills from my hand. “What a coincidence. That’ll cover it exactly.” He thumbs through the cash, then pauses and gives me back a single one dollar bill. 

“What’s that for?”

“Think of it as a first timer’s discount. You’ll need a bill!” he smirks smarmily and winks. Then he pulls a small plastic baggy of white powder out of the inside pocket of his raggedy jean jacket.

I look from the powder to the bill in my hand. “I thought you inject heroin?”

He snorts. “Noob. If you start off shooting up there’s a bigger chance you’ll do too much too fast and overdose. Sniff it your first couple’a times before you invest in a syringe and spoon. Trust me.” 

“Fine.” I reach for the baggy, but he pulls it back. 

“You know I’d be down to give you a 50% off type'a deal.” His eyes are on my chest.

I grind my teeth so hard my jawbone creaks. Never have I regretted Thanksgiving more, when, what shall hereafter be referred to only as _the incident_ happened, and I desperately needed more painkillers than I could believably filch from her stash. I didn’t have enough money to buy them, so I paid him out the difference with two explicit photos of myself. I’d largely forgotten that I did that; driven it from my mind, but his smeary smile and offer, bring the memory back full force making me feel even more like sewer waste than I already do.

I reach out and snatch the bag out of his grimy hand, fully prepared to knee him in the nuts if he pulls it away again. He doesn’t. He just laughs. “Maybe next time, huh sweetheart?!”

I debate kicking him anyway, then decide against it. I’m sure he won’t sell to me again if I do. “Yeah, maybe.” I mumble, feeling dirtier and more disgusting now than pond scum.

He smiles a huge, slimy fake, customer service smile. “Thank you, come again.”

If he wasn’t such a lowlife I might have laughed at that. But he is a lowlife rat and so I just turn away and slink off into the night.

“Oh yeah, don’t take all of that at once if you don’t wanna wake up the day after tomorrow and not remember a thing you did since snorting it!” he calls after me.

I wave my hand in vague recognition to his warning, pretending like it doesn’t sound like the most appealing notion ever right now. His mocking laughter drifts after me, driving spikes of humiliation into my back as I try to disappear into the gathering darkness as fast as I can.

I stand on one of the footbridges that crosses the Potomac. It’s dark and abandoned at this hour, just as I like it. In my hand is the bottle of vodka, down to its dregs. The bottle of rum is still two thirds full in my backpack, waiting. My head is buzzing and fuzzy. But at the same time everything is still painfully clear. Too clear!

I contemplate the baggy in my hand. Everything I know about heroin comes from movies and TV shows and is therefore probably all stereotypes. Which is why I had no idea that heroin could apparently also be snorted. I thought that was only cocaine. But as the movies have shown me I’ve emptied the powder onto the bannister of the bridge and divided it into three lines. I didn’t have a credit card to even out the lines so I used the photo of Winter on the park bench that I carry with me wherever I go now. Less as sentimental value, or so I tell myself, more as assurance that I am not actively, totally nuts. Oh, who am I kidding. It’s totally sentimental value. And I spend more time staring at it and crying over it than is strictly healthy. Fuck me, I am pathetic!

I briefly consider throwing the photo into the river. Discard him like he’s discarded me! But I can’t do it. Probably because I’m not some soulless, heartless machine! Fuck him! Fuck me! Fuck everyone and everything. Fuck. Fuck. “FUUUUUUCK!!!” I scream the expletive and my pain out into the night, over the rushing, gushing water. 

It doesn’t help.

I consider thunking my forehead against the stone bridge a few times but then decide to save that for later. Maybe. 

My shaking fingers try to roll up the one dollar bill the way I’ve seen them do it in movies. I try to avoid looking at those three scraggly lines that shine like beacons in the darkened night. What am I doing? I’ve never wanted this. I’ve never wanted anything. Anything I’ve ever thought about wanting has been torn away from me. So why? Why does every fibre of my being tell me to swipe this powder into the Potomac with the back of my hand instead of snorting it up my nose. But I need to not think. Need to not feel, need to forget. 

I can’t do this. I can’t not do this. But if I don’t then what the hell am I supposed to do now? And if I do, then what? 

Winter’s face pops into my head. What would he say if he saw me here? Saw what I was about to do? Would he say anything? Do anything? _Feel_ anything? On reflex I look behind me, half expecting him to be there. But there’s nothing, only blackness. I strain my eyes, knowing he can blend in seamlessly, ninja crow of darkness that he is. 

“Winter?”

Nothing. 

“Winter, are you there?”

Silence. Nothing but the rustling of the wind through the leaves and the rushing of the river.

Tears glaze my eyes as hopelessness rises in a massive tide, choking me. “Winter, please… please. If you’re there… please come out.”

My legs give out and I crumple to my knees, one hand barely managing to hold me upright, grabbing onto the stone railing. “Winter…” I whisper, burying my face in my other hand. Tears drip into my palm. “Winter, please, I need you…”

Nothing. Silence. He’s not there. Or he doesn’t care. Or both.

“… I need you…” my whispered words of desperation and despair are washed away by the river. Washed away like all the other unimportant trash that’s thrown into its depths everyday by worthless tourists.

My face screws up so tight it hurts. My heart crashes into my ribs so hard they hurt. My knees hurt from prolonged contact with the ground. My tear glazed face hurts from the freezing temperatures. My hands hurt. When I look down at them I see that my knuckles are split and bloody. I must have punched the ground without realizing.

Everything hurts. Hurts so much that it all blends together until nothing hurts anymore. Or maybe I just can’t feel all the other pains anymore because what hurts most of all is my soul. That feels like its been crushed, burned, and sliced into ribbons all at the same time. My breath punches out, hanging in a foggy mist in front of my face in the cold air.

Goddammit, I’m tired of this. I’m tired of everything. Of trying to be strong but always, _always_ coming out weak. Of trying to be good but winding up so damn bad and despicable anyway. Of trying to be happy, but ending up more sad and broken than before.

What’s the point? What is the point in trying if it never actually works.

I think my head is about to split in two with the indecision. Good Kate and Bad Kate are screaming at each other across the bombed out vistas of my mind. Their voices are making me want to scratch my brains out! 

Do I do it? Do I not? 

What should I do!

How do I make it stop? 

I just want it all to stop.

With a herculean effort I manage to drag myself back up to my feet. Those three crisp lines still stare at me, blurry behind my tears. I’ve crumpled my dollar bill in my fist.

My head tips back. I am so exhausted. So done. I wish I was brave enough to jump into the freezing water and let it carry me away. Freezing to death is apparently a nice way to die after the freezing part is over, r so I read somewhere. You apparently start to feel warm and cozy before you drift off. But I’m too chicken. Maybe after I take this shit I’ll be brave enough..?

The wind across my face dries the tears on my cheeks. Or maybe it freezes them into tear-cicles. I can’t tell. My fingers are stiff as I smooth out the bill and reroll it into a tight tube.

My eyes open. My brain is quiet now, suddenly all business. How do I do this? Jam the rolled up bill up one nostril, plug the other one shut, and snort up the lines of powder one by one? Do I alternate nostrils? Do I take breaks to let the stuff work? How long will it even take to work? What if it kills me? Do I care?

My eyes squeeze shut again. Last chance, Kate. I have a feeling we won’t be coming back from this once we do it. But is there even something to come back to? Is there a life I want?

Maybe once. Not anymore. I think…

My eyes open. I check one more time for Winter over my shoulder. Just out of habit. 

When I once again, predictably, find nothing I feel the muscles in my face tighten. Screw it. Screw him. Screw me. Screw the whole damn fucking world.

Trembling fingers push the dollar tube up my left nostril. Trembling fingers push the right one shut. Trembling fingers pause and freeze there like that 

My heart is pounding in my chest, my lungs squeezing in erratic rhythm.

The river rushes and gurgles 20 meters beneath my feet.

I close my eyes again.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Hold my breath.

And lean down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone catch that tiniest of little nods for Sebastian Stan's role as Jefferson/the Mad Hatters from Once Upon A Time? It was so inconsequential it was probably only obvious to me. Lol. But I love his role in that.  
> Hmm, yeah. Other than that... don't hate me? Too much?  
> I hated writing Kate so down and negative and not believing in the fact that the WS cares for her as much as she cares for him. I mean I hope it's obvious to readers that he does. But she's been disappointed and let down so much by people who are supposed to care about her by default that its much easier for her to believe that hes just another person who's abandoned her. She was expecting it the whole time anyway. But still I just wanna grab her by the front of her shirt, shake her and yell at her HE LOVES YOU TOO YOU BLIND IDIOT! lol.  
> But what did happen to him? And how will he return? Who shall he be when he returns? Bucky? Or the Winter Soldier? Aaah, the suspense!  
> Alas, we shall find out.  
> Soon.  
> Maybe. If I'm not mean! *cue evil laughter!  
> This is what late nights and sleep deprivation do to me. Those of you who read my author's notes on Help Me Breathe will be all to familiar with the random ramblings.  
> Okay I'm done.  
> If you've got this far then thank you ever so much for enduring. And reading.  
> I leave you to bask in the glory of the cliffhanger.  
> Til tomorrow. 🤞🏻🤞🏻🤞🏻


	17. An Unexpected Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for death, mentions of abuse and survivor's guilt. Sort of.  
> What? What is this chapter, I hear you asking. Why death???  
> As the somewhat meta title suggests it contains a rawther unexpected twist! 🧐 though not necessarily a bad one...  
> You shall see.  
> Enjoy.

As soon as I turn into my street I see them. Two police officers talking to roly-poly Mrs. Nextdoor and her beanstalk skinny husband. Their sirens are off but their flashers rotate merrily alternatingly bathing the small group in red and blue lights in the early morning crispness.

I freeze, immediately scared out of my guard. How could they have known? I only bought the drugs like four hours ago? Did the greaser sell me out? Was he a narc? 

_I didn’t take them!_ I want to cry out. _You can’t arrest me! I didn’t even take them! I ditched them in the Potomac because even though everything sucks shit and I’ve lost my only real friend I couldn’t face going back to the girl I was before. Before I met him!_

My exhausted brain catches up to me, and I’m just about to start backing away around the corner again when Mrs. Nextdoor spots me.

“Why, there she is, officers. Kate, Katie!” she waves her arm, her flowery, puke-inducing nightgown flapping like a flag in the breeze.

Caught, and knowing that I’ll never win a chase with the cops I make my way over, slowly. I can only hope that they arrest me on the spot and throw me in jail right away, and don’t leave me in my mother’s clutches. Speaking of which, where is my mother? Ordinarily I’d think she’d be out here, breathing fire at me when no one was looking, but playing the concerned mommy part when they were. Like _Oh no, officer. I had no idea my daughter was involved with anything drug related. And I had no idea she snuck out at night. Frankly I’m as shocked as you are, sir, and so terribly disappointed. Yessir! I’ve raised her better than this!_ All this delivered in a high pitched, syrupy sweet voice that I never understood how it could so comprehensibly fool those in positions of authority. But whatever.

I slink towards the group, trying to stop out of reach of any of them, lest the cops want to immediately grab me, slam me against the hood of their car, frisk me, and handcuff me. But it’s not the cops who grab for me. It’s Mrs. Nextdoor.

All the air leaves my lungs with a huff as I’m smashed against her ample bosom and held there in the tight kraken constriction of her arms. One powdered hand pets my wildly tangled hair. “Oh Katie. Oh, you poor, poor darling. Oh, it’s such a tragedy. A tragedy!” she wails over and over again.

I’m too confused to be pissed off by her calling me Katie. Why is she acting like my impending arrest for drug possession is a tragedy? She and her husband are almost violently religious and vehemently against any sort of substance abuse. You’d think my hooligan butt getting arrested for something she so strongly and outspoken opposes would merit her following the cop car transporting me to jail, with a fanfare of trumpets and confetti. _Hooray, no more law breaking teenagers on my street. Who knows, next she might have even started voting *gasp* Democrat. Or gotten *gasp* knocked up! I tell you, Marjorie. I don’t think that family has been to church in **years!** Scandalous! Never mind that I’m pretty sure I’ve heard sounds of the husband hitting the wife or the mother beating the daughter before. That’s just God’s will. But not going to church? Drugs? No. That just won’t do. Oh, dear, I think I need to go pray!_

The husband peels her off me. Tears are streaming down her face, leaving pink tracks in the mass of egg shell powder foundation she already wears at… what time even is it? Ass o'clock in the morning. 

My face must wear some kind of a mix of expressions made out of confusion, vague disgust, consternation, annoyance, fear, and maybe a bit of regret, because I really don’t hate Mrs. Nextdoor at all; she’s always been kind to me the few times I’ve interacted with her, but my hate soaked brain can’t stop itself from making its disparaging commentary anyways. 

She wails louder and turns her body into her husband’s, hiding her face in his shoulder, one hand flapping weakly against his chest. He hugs her close and looks at me, eyes full of pity.

I turn to the cops, a demand of _what the ever-loving fuck is going on here?_ rising to my lips when the shorter one of the two steps forward. 

“You’re Katherine Starling?”

“Yes.” My answer is clipped and short and I realize that there should probably be a _sir_ in there somewhere but I really cannot be assed right now. At least not until they tell me what the hell is going on and if I’m being arrested or not.

“We’re very sorry to have to tell you this Ms. Starling, but your mother and father have been in a car accident.”

Everything stops. Just screeches to a halt all around me. My ears fill with cotton. My mouth does too, drying out instantly. “C-car accident?” I manage to croak out after three attempts, because my voice isn’t working, my mouth’s too dry.

“I’m afraid they didn’t make it.”

The silence is now eclipsed by a loud roaring in my ears. Through the rush of sound I can clearly hear Mrs. Nextdoor’s caterwauling, although it fades in and out like a badly tuned stereo. My thoughts are a whirlwind. A hurricane, spinning faster and faster, ripping loose my brain’s entire wiring. I start to shake.

 _They didn’t make it._ They’re dead. My parents. Are dead. My father is dead. My mother. My mother who has tormented me since I was 6 years old, who’s made my life a living hell, who’s hurt me over and over again, to the point of probably needing a hospital several times though she never once took me, who’s washed my malleable brain since I was a kid so that I’d never tell on her, who hated me because… because why? Just because. She’s dead. Dead. Gone. Forever. In a car crash of all things.

“We are very sorry for your loss!”

The first cop speaks again, pulling me out of the explosion inside my mind. I blink hard, trying to focus on his face. It’s weathered, and kind. He’s an older gentleman with laugh lines around his eyes and mouth although they’re not laughing right now. They look deepened and sharp with sympathy. He actually seems sad for me, not like he probably has to deliver news like this twice a week or more. It actually seems to be affecting him. If only he knew!

Behind me Mrs. Nextdoor is still proclaiming tragedies to the unbothered heavens and calling on Jesus to raise up the poor tormented souls. The first cop gestures to the second one, who’s younger, but looks equally sad and immediately springs into action the moment his partner signals him. He gently but firmly begins to shepherd Mr. and Mrs. Nextdoor back towards their house, leaving me with the older officer.

Still shell-shocked and unable to truly comprehend this situation I scrub a trembling hand over my face, leaving it covering my mouth, then look towards the cop, staring blankly.

“I am so sorry!” he says again.

I lick my dry lips but my tongue is basically a block of wood at the moment so it doesn’t provide any lubrication whatsoever and my voice still scrapes out my throat sounding like I’ve been chewing sand. “What happened?”

“You know your parents went out together last night?” he questions.

I nod. “They said it was a business dinner.”

“They were driving home from that some time around two in the morning. I suspect they went to a bar after the dinner resulting in the late hours. Their car went off the road and hit a tree– are you sure you want hear this?” he interrupts himself, looking closely at me.

I nod, feeling cold sweat break out all over my body. Something about this story is niggling at my brain. Something… but I can’t put my finger on it. I need to hear the rest. And I need to know… “Was he drunk?” Need to know if it was my father’s fault. If I can blame him. Or her. Maybe they fought and she reached into the wheel. I need to know whose fault it is. Because things like this don’t just _happen._ Not to me.

“We don’t know yet. Their car caught fire immediately. They… burned inside it. We couldn’t even recognize the bodies when we arrived on scene, let alone run any tests. That’s why it took us so long to inform you. We were able to identify the owner of the vehicle by the license plate: your father. Judging by the accessories we found in the passenger seat there was a woman with him. We assumed it would be his wife but we weren’t sure. When we came here and rang the doorbell and no one answered our fears were mostly confirmed. Your statement saying that she went with him on this dinner finalizes it. I’m sorry!”

I swallow hard, feeling as if I’m gargling nails. “How can you be sure?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. 

He looks at me with such sadness and compassion in his eyes that I look away. I can’t stand his pity, not because I don’t want it, but because it’s misplaced. Because I am a horrible person! He thinks I’m grieving, asking how they can be sure the dead woman in the car was my mother because I’m holding on to some thin thread of hope that she might be alive because I love her so much. When in reality I want it confirmed without a doubt that she is dead and gone and will never come back to hurt me again! What kind of daughter does that?! Crosses her fingers that her mother has been burned to a crisp in a horrific car accident? I do not deserve this nice cop’s sympathy at all!

“We can’t be, but dental records will confirm it. We’ve put a rush on the process so we should know by the end of the day.”

Everything freezes again. Heat flashes through my body and my heart rate spikes. For a long moment my brain can’t catch up to my body’s reaction but then it latches onto the phrase that set this off. _Dental records!_

Where have I heard that before?

In the article! That article that I read two months ago in the library about the foreign caravan that inexplicably blew up in a mostly abandoned part of town. They had to use dental records to identify the unknown woman in the car. Except it wasn’t inexplicable for me because I saw it happen and I know who did it. 

Winter?!

Did he…? Was this him? Did he do this? _Could_ he have done this?

Yes. Yes he could. I don’t doubt that in the slightest. But would he? Why? For me? No way. Otherwise why would have just dropped off the face of the Earth like that? He knows my mother hurts me. But he’s never done anything before. And he left me. He doesn’t care about me, so why should he have done this?!

But still I can’t help asking, “Are you sure it was an accident?”

The officer seems immediately alert. “Why do you ask?”

Oh, shit. Think fast! “Umm… my dad had some depressive tendencies a few years back. Maybe he drove the car into the tree on purpose. I… I don’t know… I just… I’m sorry!” I’m rambling, trying to divert his attention again.

It seems to work because he looks sad once more. “You asked if he was drunk..?”

I nod again, looking down at my hands the fingers of which are twisted together into tight knots in front of me. I lie. Again. Mrs. Nextdoor would tell me I was going to hell at this point, I’m sure. “He drank a lot back then, during that time. He seemed to have stopped at least at home but I sometimes suspected he drank a bit too much away from us. But I was never sure.” 

Suddenly the full realization of this situation hits me. My mother and father are dead. They will never hurt me again. No one will ever beat me, or starve me again. They’re dead. I’ll never know if that almost magical scene from last night was setting up to be the new normal. If they’d somehow seen the light. If they were going to try harder, try to be a family again, be my parents again. I’ll never know now. They’re dead. I’ll never have to hate them again. I’ll never get the chance to try and love them again. They’re _dead!_ I’m alone in the world. And the person I may have considered my only real friend may have been the one to kill them!

How am I supposed to feel about that?!

My knees shake. Spots of color explode in my line of sight. I wobble.

Dimly I’m aware of the cop wrapping his arm around my shoulders and gently leading me to his cruiser. He opens the front door and sits me down sideways in the drivers seat then drapes his heavy jacket around my shivering shoulders.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks softly, crouching down in front of me. “Call anyone for you?”

I shake my head rapidly. Call anyone? Who? I have no one. 

“Is there anyone you can stay with? Family? Friends?” 

I shake my hear again.

He grimaces.

“What?” I croak.

“We can’t let a minor set off on her own, legally. As well as personally I don’t want to. You’re in shock and you’ve just suffered a terrible loss. I don’t want you going into the foster system.”

“I’m 19.”

He draws back surprised. “You’re in high school?!”

I shrug. “I started a year later and had to do grade 2 twice. I’m almost 2 years older than most of my classmates.”

“Alright.” He looks thoughtful. “Well, that’s the legality worry off the table. I’d still prefer it if you weren’t alone. Are you sure there’s no one who you could stay with for a while, or who could stay here with you?”

I turn around to look out the front passenger window at the house. A full body shiver wracks me as I imagine ever setting foot into that building again. “No!” is blurt. “I don’t wanna stay here.”

He nods in understanding, probably thinking that it would be too painful for me to stay here with all the memories of my parents. He’s right. That’s exactly why I don’t want to stay. But he probably thinks they’re all good memories and I’ll be sad seeing the ghosts of my parents in every corner, nook, and cranny. No. There’s ghosts alright, but they’re malicious. That house is full of pain for me. Full of blood and bruises, shouted words, angry voices. I don’t ever want to set foot in it again.

But then where will I go? The streets? A few days, heck a few _hours_ ago that would have been preferable. Anything; any _where_ to get away from _her._ But now… now that I know that she’s gone… I want better for myself. 

But who is there? 

“Maybe… there’s one person who might let me stay with him…” I say quietly and my officer immediately perks up.

“Who is it? Do you have his number? We can contact him right now?”

“I… I don’t know his number, only his name. But he lives somewhere on Main.”

“The name is fine. We can run it and get a number.”

“Ok. Um… Matt… uh… Matthew Burnett.”

“I’ll call the station right now and have them run his name!” My officer promises, digging his phone out of his pocket and retreating several steps down the road.

His partner, the younger one, comes back at that moment from his mission of transporting Mr. and Mrs. Nextdoor to their home. He sees me sitting hunched up in the cruiser and comes over also asking if he can get me anything. Again I decline.

He pulls out a notepad. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

I look up at him instantly suspicious. “Sure…”

“Where were you coming from earlier?”

Of course he’d be suspicious about that. “I went for a walk around the neighborhood to clear my head.”

“At 5 in the morning?”

“Woke up. Couldn’t fall back asleep. I do it fairly often.”

“You’re parents don’t– didn’t mind?”

“No. I was just wandering around the neighborhood. It’s a pretty safe area.”

“You didn’t notice that they weren’t home?”

“No.”

“Did they have any enemies?” 

Does that mean that Officer Tactless over here thinks that this wasn’t an accident? What does he know or believe that the first cop doesn’t?

“Not that I know of.” I say, which is true. I’m sure they had people who hated them, though enemies might seem to strong a word. I haven’t really spoken to my dad face to face in years, but judging by the way he was with my mother I could imagine that he’d made very few friends if he acted that way to others. My mom didn’t leave the house anymore so there wasn’t really anyone to hate her apart from me. And I didn’t do this!

Or… maybe I did. If it _was_ Winter then I’m sure he did it because of me. Did I indirectly cause their deaths? The question makes my heart beat faster again, my brain beginning to scream anew. Is it my fault that they’re dead? Am I a murderer? Or an accessory to murder?!

The young cop in front of me clears his throat and I snap out of my funk. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What did you think about the police report your mother filed two weeks ago?” he repeats. 

_Police report?_ “I don’t know anything about her filing a police report.”

“Did you at any point hear–“ 

“Carstark!” The older officer is back and interrupting. The younger one jumps and drops his notepad. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Asking questions, sir.” He sounds unsure.

“This is a grieving victim. Her parents were just killed in a horrific accident. You don’t just come at her with your conspiracy theories.”

“But it’s our job to look at every angle and ask everyone questions.”

“Yes, but maybe this isn’t the time?! It hasn’t even been half an hour since she heard the news!”

My head swivels back and forth between the two men, following their whispered argument like a tennis volley, all while my mind cannot shake that last question. What police report?

“Go!” My officer sends away the younger one before turning back towards me.

“I’m sorry about that. My partner is new. He hasn’t quite worked out the finesse and tact aspect of the job.” He attempts a half-hearted smile, while officer Carstark sulks off in the distance.

“He mentioned a police report?”

“Did he? He watches too much CSI. Thinks everything always has to be connected. I doubt there’s a correlation.”

“I didn’t know my mother even filed one?”

“Oh?”

I take a deep breath. “Could you… can you tell me what it was about?”

He studies me for a long moment and I think he’s going to say no. Then he sighs once, pulls his notebook out of his back pocket and flips through it. “I wasn’t the officer who took the statement but when we ran your mother’s name through our database the report came up and I read it. Apparently she was assaulted by a masked man on her early morning run a couple of weeks ago.”

I frown at this first inconsistency I’m already seeing here. I don’t voice it though and ask instead, “Assaulted?”

“She claims he stopped her in the street and waved a gun in her face. He allegedly told her to “never touch her again" and then hit her once across the face before running off. She said she had no idea who this _her_ could have been referring to and she didn’t recognize the man’s voice.”

I blink hard, using every ounce of self control I have to not spontaneously implode. “What did he look like?” I ask tonelessly.

“She reported that he was dressed all in black with a ski mask over his face although his eyes were visible and they were blue. He was wearing gloves as well, she noticed, but she thought he must have had brass knuckles or something along with the gun because his fist was very hard when he hit her. It split her lip and bruised her cheek. Did you notice the injury?”

“She told me she’d tripped over her untied shoelaces on her run and hadn’t been able to catch herself because she was trying to catch her phone before it shattered on the concrete. Music, you know. And it already had a cracked screen so one more impact would have killed it. She laughed it off later and said her priorities were always a little backwards. And she’s always been a bit clumsy. Passed that trait on to me.” I’m blathering inanely on autopilot, the lies rolling off my tongue like oiled up marbles. In truth I’d assumed it had been my dad being a bit more heavy handed than usual.

“She told you nothing of the incident?”

I shake my head. “Guess she didn’t want to worry me.” My voice is still toneless.

I don’t know if my officer is getting suspicious or something, because he opens his mouth to say or ask something, but he’s interrupted by a pristine, wine red ’48 Chevy Fleetline screeching around the corner. 

Next second the car comes to a stop after nearly running down Officer Carstark, who dives out of the way just in time, landing tangled in a dead rhododendron. 

Mr. Burnett launches from the front seat and hurtles toward me, leaving his car to sputter and die as the transmission chokes out. He sweeps me into a hug so tight my ribs protest. He says nothing, just squeezes me tight to him. I stand in his embrace unable for some reason to react and hug him back. Maybe because it’s weird… he’s my teacher, hugging him like this feels wrong somehow… or maybe I’m just numb. It occurs to me then that it might look strange, even suspicious to the police that I have yet to shed a single tear for these parents that they believe I loved so much. 

Mr. B. pushes me gently away from him by my shoulders, his x-ray look searching my face. “Are you okay?”

I shrug.

“I came as soon as they called. What do you need?”

“I…” I’m starting to doubt this. Why did I think this was a good idea? He’s not gonna want me. No one ever does!

He pushes a some hair out of my face. “What, Kate?” 

“I thought maybe… I could… stay with you… for a little while…” I whisper to his shoes.

He heaves a heavy sigh. I squeeze my eyes closed, steeling myself for the inevitable rejection.

“Of course. However long you need.”

I look up in surprise. “Wait, really?”

He smiles sadly. “I’ve been offering for years, haven’t I?” he asks quietly so the cops won’t overhear.

“I don’t wanna inconvenience you.” I mumble.

“You won’t!” He says firmly.

“Or get you in trouble.”

“You won’t do that either.”

“But the school… I’m your student.”

He shrugs. “You’re also off age. I know it’s unconventional and it’ll probably raise a few eyebrows with the board, but legally they can’t do anything. Call it a grey area. Or we could just tell them that you’re my niece.”

He grins crookedly at me as this last statement wrings a wavering snort out of me. With his pasty pale complexion, light grey eyes, and thatches of straw blond hair and beard we look about as unrelated as we possibly could. No one would buy it. Plus he’s six foot gigantic while I’m barely five foot nothing plus three inches.

I swallow down my sudden influx of heavy emotion. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

“Don’t even mention it.”

I swallow hard, my throat and chest tight with a crazy mixture of emotions. I can’t even begin to sort through them right now. I’ll need a couple hours of quiet to do that, and I don’t even actually know if I want to. Because then I’ll have to face… several unfaceable things. Like whether my disappeared former ghost best friend killed my parents. Whether that’s my fault if he did. Whether I should feel guilty about it if it is my fault. And that’s not to mention all the other tumultuous feelings I’m having. Just in general about the deaths of my parents. People I hated. But was supposed to love. And… did..? Did I? No! Yes… I wanted to. But… but…

 _Aaargh!_ My head feels like its about to implode. I can’t think about this now, I can’t feel it. I don’t want to feel it! I just want it to stop. Make it stop!

Dimly through my roaring, screaming thoughts I feel Mr. B shepherding me toward his car. I hear him exchange a few words with the cops but can’t focus enough to hear them. The car starts. I shove my shaking hands under my thighs to still them. I can feel my eyes wide as dinner plates staring unblinking out the front windshield. I can’t focus on anything but the cacophony of guilt, blame, questions, and euphoria in my brain.

I feel Mr. B reach over to buckle my seat belt for me. Feel the rumbling vibrations of the car driving. Feel him leading me into his apartment. Feel him pushing me gently down to lie on a sofa and removing my shoes for me. Feel him pushing two pills between my lips and tilting a glass of water against my unresponsive mouth to help wash them down. 

My head immediately becomes foggy and dimly I realize that those were probably sleeping pills. He covers me with a blanket. Touches my hair softly. Smiles.

“You’re safe now, Fate,” is the last thing I hear before unconsciousness wraps its freezing fingers around my throat and pulls me under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo...  
> What do we think? Was it him? Was it chance? Or something else entirely? Lemme know your thoughts and theories if you wish. Also apologies for the lack of Buckyness in this chapter.  
> Thank you tons for reading!


	18. Forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for torture, mind control, and angst.  
> Hope you like and that it answers a few questions. Maybe. But honestly it'll probably raise a whole bunch more...

**FIVE DAYS EARLIER**

Pain. So much pain. Its nerve point is in his head but it pulses its aftershocks throughout his whole body. His muscles are as tense as steel, hurting, as they lock too tight and cramp. His jaw cracks from the force with which he bites down on the rubber bridle they’d shoved between his teeth to stop him biting off his tongue at the pain. Endless, endless pain.

They know. They found out. Somehow they found out about her. They must have followed him, tracked him somehow. They don’t know who she is, he thinks, or that she’s witnessed some of the things he’s done, or that she’s seen his face. But they know he’s been seeing her. 

They want to know who she is. He doesn’t tell them. He doesn’t know, he says. They repeat the question. He repeats his answer. They hook him up to the machine. Pain! They ask him again. “Who is she?” He says he doesn’t know. More pain.

And so it goes. Over and over. Even through the torture he doesn’t once consider telling them. She has no part of this. She is too innocent, too special. If he tells them it will mean certain death for her. He wants to protect her. He will protect her! They’re not going to touch her! Not on his watch!

He lies. “I don’t know.” “She’s just some girl.” “I never talked to her.” “She took me by surprise.” “I don’t know her name.” “I only saw her once.”

He thinks they might be starting to believe him. He’d never held out this long under their torture before without cracking. But they don’t understand that he’s found more of himself, whoever that is, in the past months with her than he has known in years and years. And it’s helping him to resist.

When the pain is particularly bad he imagines her face. He sees the way her lips curve when she smiles, even when it’s tentative, still scared of him. He sees how her curly hair bounces around her face whenever she moves and remembers the strange desire he’s had numerous times now, to gently pick up one of the coils and pull it to its furthest extent to see how long it actually is. But he had never acted on the desire, and now, burning with agony, he wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to. He doubts it.

He thinks about her eyes. That rich warm brown. So extraordinarily dark but flecked with gold. He thinks about how sometimes they become darker, almost black, whenever she is feeling heavy emotions. They light up when she is feeling happy. But they are not often light… Then he remembers that one time that she stayed long enough to watch the sunrise with him and how her brown eyes seemed to be lit up from within by the golden glow of the rising sun. He had never seen them that light; that bright.

He thinks about her voice, low and slightly husky, how sometimes it still shakes with nerves when she talks to him, and how it gets ever so slightly faster and higher when she’s excited about something. He thinks about how that voice says his name, the one she’d given to him. Always careful, like a whisper or a question, but with a familiarity as if she’d known him for years or as if she knew him well.

He thinks about the bruises. Of course he figured out quickly where they came from. And he tried to stop the woman. And it seemed to have worked. But he wished he could have done more for her. Taken away not just future pain but all the pain that she had already suffered. But he couldn’t. And anything permanent he does would be discovered by _them,_ and it would be her death sentence. But he did warn the women that horrible woman. He only meant to scare her that one time, but when she had laughed in his face and called her own daughter horrible words he hadn’t been able to control himself and he’d hit her. He’d regretted it later, sure that someone would find out, that the woman would tell. But nothing had come of it, and the bruises had gone away.

He thinks about how she masks her pain, almost as skillfully as he masks his own, and the little lies she tells about what happened to her and how he can see right through them, knows that _she_ knows he can see right through them, but he lets her get away with them anyway. Because she doesn’t push him either.

Part of it he know is fear. She’s still too afraid of what he might do to her even though the very idea of hurting her makes him want to throw up. He would rather rip both of his arms off than hurt her. 

But he had. He had hurt her, that last time he saw her. She had probed too deeply. Accidentally stumbled onto that name… that name that rang a faint bell in his muddled memories. And she had kept digging. Too far, too fast. And he had yelled. And left. And he hadn’t gone back.

Not by choice though. He had wanted to. But her questioning had rattled him. It was as if they had knocked something lose inside him, something that had been shaken earlier that night. When his mission had been to kill the one eyed man. He’d done it. He’d tracked him to an apartment building and had shot him in the heart from the roof of the next building over. But then he had been chased. By a second man that had been in the same apartment, with the one eyed man. The one that had chased him wasn’t supposed to have been there. But when he had thrown the heavy shield at him, and he had caught it and thrown it back something had come undone inside him. It had been familiar. Second-hand. That motion of catching the shield. Throwing it. It hadn’t been his enhanced reflexes. It had been an age old muscle memory. One from _before._ But he couldn’t remember. And the man… something about how he had stood there, how his shadowed silhouette had moved to catch the shield when he threw it back hard… it was familiar. In a painful way. So he had already been riled, and confused, and on edge. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. The only one that had ever been able to make him feel so unsettled was her. With her he was used to it, expected it, liked it. But now this man… No. It was wrong! And so her questioning had been too much; the name she’d said digging further into the strange chasm that had opened up inside him before. And he had reverted to part of his training. Run. Because if he didn’t run, he would have to kill her. So his training decreed. And he would never do that! 

Then that night when he returned to give his mission statement for the one eyed man they had grabbed him. They knew, they informed him, about a girl who had seen the Winter Soldier. Who was she?

And so the cycle of torture had begun.

Another knife is driven into his brain, the impact reverberating through every bone. His body arches upwards in the restraints that tie him to the chair and he screams. He knows it’s not a real knife, knows it’s the machine that’s jabbing his brain, but it feels like a knife; it feels like a thousand knives stabbing, twisting, digging, carving. 

As a new wave of agony washes over him he tries to distract himself with the memory of the first time he wanted to protect her. It was the day he first followed her when he went to her while she was sitting amidst all the copper statues. He remembered how the two previous nights her eyes had kept flickering so apprehensively to his weapons, his guns. And so he had taken them all off and hidden them at the base of a tree before he had allowed her to see him.

He remembers how it had felt sitting there, just sitting there. The calm that had washed over him. When had he ever just sat? Done nothing? He had been on the alert as he always was but never had he felt so at peace. At least not that he could remember. And he had learned her name that night. Kate. It suited her, he thought. Quick and to the point. Shy and demure sounding when spoken softly, strong and sure when said loudly, and sweet and gentle when whispered. He thought her name over and over and over again now in his head, in time with the pulsing beats of agony that split his skull, and his racing heartbeat. Kate. Kate. Kate.

But he refuses to say it out loud.

The pain stops. He’s left weak and panting in the chair, hair flopping into his face, his entire body tingling with aftershocks, wracked by spasms. His body is sticky with cold sweat, drool dripping out the corners of his lips, past the rubber gag.

He waits, strung tightly for his handlers to return and question him again.

But they don’t come. Instead the door opens and the man walks in. That man. The one he hates above all others. The one who gives the orders now that Dr. Zola is dead.

He knows his title and his name since the man never bothered to keep them hidden from him; Secretary of Defense. Alexander Pierce. He’s an important man. To the government. And the government doesn’t know that he’s working against them. Or maybe they do. Maybe they can’t do anything because he’s such an important man. But he likes mocking him; Pierce. Likes to dangle his control in front of his face. Likes to prove that he, Pierce, has his free will while its been ripped from him _by_ Pierce.

He keeps his face carefully blank the way he’s been trained even though the hate is ripping him apart inside. What he wouldn’t give to wrap his metal hand around the man's throat and squeeze. Squeeze until the face turned blue, the tongue purple and swollen, and the eyes bulged out of their sockets, becoming bloodshot and glassy. Until the body jerked in the throes of death and foaming spittle ran down the chin. Until the man stopped breathing. He knows exactly how it feels to do this to a person. He’s done it before. On Pierce’s orders. While he watched and drank wine.

He tamps down on the hate lest it shows on his face. No one is as good at reading him as Pierce. But he is better. All the training Pierce forced onto him is paying off by biting Pierce in the ass. He’s using it against him now which gives him a grim satisfaction.

But satisfaction is also an emotion and so he can’t feel it. Calm. Empty. Calm. Ready to comply.

“Soldat,” Pierce says, grabbing a nearby chair and lowering himself into it. He rests his elbows on his knees as he leans forwards, eyes fixed to his face, reaching out to remove the spit soaked gag from between his clenched teeth. “I hear you’ve been giving the men some trouble.”

“Unintentionally, sir.” He says briskly.

“What’s this I hear about a girl then?”

“Nothing to report, sir.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“After the mission on January 6th, sir. I sat on a bench and she sat next to me.”

“She sat down next to you?” Pierce sounds disbelieving and he knows why. No one willingly sits beside him.

“She said something about a party, sir. She thought I was wearing a costume.”

Pierce nods slowly. “Did she say anything to you?”

“She liked my costume, sir. She wished me a happy New Year.”

“It was a week after New Year, Soldat.”

“I think she was drunk, sir.”

“Ah.” Pierce leans back and he feels a flash of cautious hope before he tamps down on it.

“Did she tell you her name?”

“No, sir.”

Pierce rises. “You were careless, Soldat. You know you shouldn’t let yourself be seen by civilians.”

He lowers his eyes submissively, the way he knows Pierce expects him to do. 

“You will be punished for your severe lack in judgement, and we will wipe all traces of this girl from your mind just in case. But I will tell the men to desist their digging. I believe you, you don’t know any more about her.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Pierce claps him on the shoulder like a proud father would a son. “You’ve been a tremendous asset, Soldat. The fist of Hydra has never been more capable and closer to landing the knockout punch. You’re doing great things.”

He stays silent like a good dog.

Pierce leaves. He stays behind as the nervous junior aide approaches with the acrid tasting rubber bit to force back between his teeth.. He tries to mentally prepare himself for the new wave of torture. It helps to know that it is the last one, his punishment. And then afterwards he will be wiped. And this time there is no loophole, no chance of remembering her afterwards. He will forget her as he has forgotten so much else, everything else. Even though he has only told them about one instance of meeting her, they now know about her and so every memory he has that involves her will be torn from his mind, forcefully and painfully pried from his head. 

Despair strikes his heart, and hopelessness because everything is about to go back to how it was. No more feeling, no more cautious happiness, no hope, nothing. Just… nothing again. Maybe it’s better this way. 

And at least she will be safe. He has ensured her safety by convincing Pierce of his words. And she will also be safe from him now. Indefinitely. 

Yes, it _is_ better this way! So why does every single piece of him that she has laid bare in the past months tell him that it’s not, and hurt worse than any torture they could inflict on him?

The knives burrow into his brain from each temple, blades soaked in acid that spreads through him corroding and burning her away. His eyes slam closed as his jaw clenches and his muscles lock. He summons her face into his mind picturing it, trying to imprint it into his brain so he won’t forget it even though he knows it’s futile. As he screams muffled into the gag he repeats her name over and over and over in his mind, tasting it, feeling it, knowing it while he still can.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Katekatekate…

Kate!

…Kate…

…Ka—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...  
> Now what...?  
> I will leave you on this cliffhanger. Because I am an evil person.  
> But thanks for reading!!


	19. A Long Lost Hero Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for survivor's guilt, mentions of death and abuse and torture. Angst.  
> Something pretty exciting happens in this chapter.  
> Enjoy

  
Numb. That’s how I feel. It seems impossible that just 24 hours ago I actually wanted to feel numb. Now I wish I could feel anything but.

I wake up after the longest sleep I’ve probably ever had, disoriented on Mr. B’s leather couch. It’s dark outside the window and after a little bit of quiet foraging I find the oven clock in the kitchen and discover that it’s just past 4 in the morning. A time I’d usually been with Winter.

Almost as if I was magnetically drawn there, my feet carry me back to the living room window. And there, right outside are the fire-stairs. Unthinking I unlatch the window, climb through, and clamber up those stairs until I reach the roof. It’s a low roof, only five storeys above the ground but it’s cleaner than mine. A handrail runs all the way around it. 

It’s cold, and I’m not wearing a jacket. I shiver on instinct, but my brain isn’t really sending the proper signals to my body and so I can tell that it’s cold, but I don’t physically feel it.

I sit. Thread my arms and legs through the handrail and stare down at the cars crawling along Main Street at regular intervals even at 4am. 

Predictably my thoughts go immediately to Winter. Did he really do it? Did he really kill my parents; cause their accident? Why? A misguided desire to help me, free me? Was it really so misguided? I know I would have gladly murdered the people I know hurt him. I would have done it without question and with a smile, if I could. So who’s to say that he wouldn’t do the same? And who would I be to judge him if he did? 

Because I know that if he did do it then it was to protect me, misguided or not. But why protect me if he’s gonna just disappear from my life? To protect me in another way? From them? Maybe he didn’t willingly abandon me?

But even so I still don’t think he did. Him, and his dual personality… that one half that he was only with me wouldn’t have done it. The robot half, yes. But he wasn’t the robot with me. But then this was some very, very strange coincidence. Almost, dare I say it… convenient?! So maybe it _was_ him? The indecision is beating my brain in two, and I find myself rhythmically thumping my chin onto the metal guardrail it’s resting on. Not wanting to hurt ever again, now that the primary perpetrator of my past hurts is gone, I desist.

And speaking of my mother, what about that police report that she apparently filed? _That_ definitely was Winter. A blue eyed, masked guy?! She said he had brass knuckles. Nah, he had a whole ass metal arm. I know she lied to the cops. She doesn’t run in the morning. She doesn’t leave the house to venture further than the mailbox at all, and she only does that occasionally. 

_Did,_ I remind myself. She only _did_ that occasionally. What a bizarre notion death is… when _does_ turns to _did; is_ turns to _was._

But when did it happen? The night he was in my house, I realize; in my room. To leave me the invite to the fireworks. That must have been it. Because the next day she was bruised up to kingdom come. So it wasn’t my dad after all. It was Winter. And right after that she stopped hitting me. So he threatened her as well as beat her up. _Never_ _touch her again_ the cop said was the statement she gave. The _her_ evidently being me. And she didn’t. Because she was scared that Winter might come back? Then why did she make the report? And why did she lie on it in a way that would practically ensure that nothing would ever come of it?

For the same reason she hit me when my dad hit her. The same reason she made me her personal maid, and freaked out about my grades and school performance but never bothered to ask me about them or, heaven forbid, offer to help me with like homework or whatever when I was still a kid. Control. Manipulation. The selfish fixation on her public image, and the delusion that anyone besides her actually cared about that. She wanted to feel like she had done something, like Winter hadn’t clearly gotten the better of her, had won. But she was too cowardly to actually stand up to him by telling the truth and maybe sending someone after him. Not that it would have done any good but she wouldn’t have known that. So she pretended to herself that she’d totally socked it to him with that fake report. While knowing deep down that she hadn’t actually done jack shit. But she’s always been good at feeding her own narrative and no one else’s. And she was the queen of gaslighting.

Besides she couldn’t have told the truth in the report because that would have meant admitting what she did to me…

And now she’s dead. Maybe indirectly because of me. And I don’t feel anything about it. Not even relief, which is odd. I’d wished for this so many times, and then felt as if I deserved to be burned at the stake for that wish! 

And what about that last interaction with them? What had that been? Had it just been them practicing for the act they knew they were going to have to put on during the business dinner? Loving couple, doting parents? _And how is your daughter doing? Oh, she’s in her final year of high school? What does she want to do after graduation?_ I wonder how they would have answered that. _Oh, she’s going to study psychology/physics/mechanical engineering/underwater basket weaving/_ insert whatever random profession they could come up with on the fly or that would make them look important by association. _Yes, its been a passion of hers ever since she was little._ I doubt they would have ever mentioned my real passion, the only thing I could have ever envisioned myself wanting to do. Not that they knew or cared about my photography, or would have even if I had shared it with them.

I turn my head sideways to rest my cheek on the cold handrail. Why can’t I feel a damn thing anymore? It’s freaky! Yesterday I was sure I’d combust under all the emotions. Now… nothing. I’m an empty shell. A hollowed out husk.

And so I sit there, watching the sunrise but not really seeing it. My mind drifts somewhere apart from my body, like it too wants to distance itself from the horrible, disgusting girl who can’t even cry for her dead parents.

In the early morning hours Mr. B finds me. “Jesus, First Mate, you scared me. What are you doing up here?” 

I shrug.

He sits down next to me. “You okay?”

Shrug.

“What’s going on inside that curly head?”

Shrug.

He sighs and rubs my back lightly with one hand. “You’ll get through this too.”

Then, finally, a tear! Just one. But it’s a start. Maybe. It rolls its solitary way slowly down my left cheek and hangs stubbornly on my chin for long moments before dripping down to splash onto the steel handrail. He’s right. I’ll get through this too. I will. I have to. Because now I’ve got a second chance. A new beginning. I’d taken the first step that night when I didn’t snort the drugs even though every last bit of me wanted to. I’d wanted to be stronger more. And I was.

And this… this is a curveball. It’s unexpected. But it’s the freedom I’ve always wanted and never had. And even if the price for that is… what? Is there even a price? My parents are dead. But they put me through hell. Haven’t I already paid my price over and over again since I was six years old? What could I possibly have left to give them? My innocence? My peace? They saw to it that that was gone right quick. My love? They don’t deserve that. They forfeited the right to that long ago, and they certainly don’t deserve it now either just because they’re dead.

So what? Is the price I have to pay the terrible knowledge that I might have been the cause of their deaths? Their horrific deaths? Burnt alive in their car? I may have wished them gone many times but I wouldn’t wish that kind of death on anyone, not even them.

No. No, that’s not true. I’d wish it on those that hurt Winter. In fact I’d douse them in gasoline and light them on fire myself and then dance around the pyre!

Mr. B draws my attention back to him. “I have to get ready for school. I’m assuming you don’t want to go in today?”

I shake my head. 

“If you want I can call in. I’ll stay with you. Just say the word.”

I shake my head again. “No, you should go. I’ll be okay for a few hours. I should shower. If… if that’s okay.”

“Of course it is, Katie. What’s mine is yours. After I get back we’ll talk, okay? Figure out what your next step is going to be.”

I nod.

He stands up and helps me to my feet, holding on to my hands and looking directly into my eyes. “I want you to know that you can stay here as long as you want, alright? I’m here for you. Whatever, whenever! Do you understand that?”

I nod again. “Thank you. Seriously. For everything!”

“No need to thank me. I’m just glad you’re finally safe.”

I press my lips together before I mumble my shame and my relief to our feet. “Me too.”

Mr. B leaves and lets me have the full run of his home. Pastes a sticky note to my forehead with his cell phone number on it, telling me to call him if I need anything. If I want him to come home he will. Right away. I transfer the sticky to the telephone receiver, which is an old wall mounted thing with a rotary dial. I know Mr. B is a history buff and loves old pre-war things, hence the car, but I had no idea just how deep his fascination and obsession went. And how actually specifically fixated it was. His entire apartment is filled with World War II memorabilia. His living room is like a museum exhibit, complete with three glass display cases and two mannequins in uniform. His shelves are filled with books on the subject. It’s a bit disconcerting to be surrounded by guns, and photos of tanks, and even some swastikas. This lart is creepy. But I understand that it’s a branch of history he’s fascinated by and that it doesn’t mean that he’s some Neo-Nazi fanatic. Thank God.

The entire left half of his living room is dedicated to Captain America. We learned about him in school last year but I mostly zoned out because that perfect, hero, golden boy, American dream image turns me off. Or maybe it was just the way my History teacher talked about him, like he was the only human alive to never ever have had a single flaw. I thought the guy was gonna orgasm every time he got to say Captain ‘Murica. Barf.

Mr. B has a replica of the famous shield hanging on the wall, right above the sofa I slept on all night. I kneel up on the cushions and carefully touch the cold red, white, and blue metal, the silver star in the middle. My face reflects back to me from that star, distorted and haggard looking.

I turn away. A jacket on another mannequin torso catches my attention. It’s black with red piping running along the seams. Heavy, coarse, leathery material, a high collar, big silver buttons. Straps criss-cross the chest, each shoulder bears a scarlet emblem, and a huge, square belt buckle sits high on the waist, holding everything together. Upon closer inspection I see that the belt buckle bears the same emblem as is stitched onto the shoulders. Some kind of weird six tentacled octopus/kraken creature with a skull for a head.

It seems oddly familiar. I probably saw it in History but forgot about it. 

It’s only then that I see that the jacket is labeled with a small plaque on the floor of the mannequin’s stand. I crouch down to read what it says. _Johann Schmidt. Head of HYDRA. Special Weapons Unit Nazi Schutzstaffel. 1902-1945. a.k.a. The Red Skull._

So this was a bad guy, huh? I find myself more interested and intrigued in the subject by this one little plaque than I was at any point last year during Mr. Quinn's rambling lessons. Maybe because he never really taught us this… only waxed poetic about Captain America and his glorious achievements. And his even glorious-er abs.

But I want to know more about this Red Skull guy. He died in the war, if I remember my dates right. And what was HYDRA again? I feel somehow like I should know this. Well, no better place to figure it out then here in this unexpected den of history.

Feeling somewhat rejuvenated with a rekindled sense of purpose, even if it’s a rather mundane one, I make my way over to Mr. B’s bookshelves. There has to be something…

Only a few minutes of browsing later I find a book titled _The Rise and Fall of HYDRA: Cut Off One Head, Two More Shall Take Its Place: Where Are They Now?_ I take it over to my sofa nest and curl up with it in my lap.

Methodically I flip pages, reading a blurb here, a paragraph there, studying a picture, turning to the index to look up whatever captured my attention. I suppose it’s a given that a large part of this book is dedicated to Captain America. He was a war hero after all and is therefore directly tied in with this secret evil society and their downfall. The more I read about him the more I realize that my strange dislike of him came less from his actions and more from Mr. Quinn's strange, over the top hero worshipping, wet dream type lectures. Dude was actually quite interesting. And surprisingly normal. And he kind of does deserve his hero reputation. I mean the way he volunteered for that experiment… Oddly I don’t remember Mr. Quinn ever mentioning that Steve Rogers was ever anything else but a pure, prime rib cut of Kansas beefcake. Like that part of the story wasn’t worth mentioning to my History teacher because the guy he was before he became all ripped and public hero-y wasn’t special enough. Which is bullshit.

I flip another page and come to a new chapter titled _What Happens To The HYDRA When All Heads Are Cut At Once?: Captain America And The Howling Commandos._

I read the chapter with great interest, learning that this elite team was formed after Captain Rogers rescued them from a HYDRA POW camp. After that they became an elite task force for the SSR; the Strategic Scientific Reserve. They were instrumental in the eventual downfall of HYDRA and were as much heroes as the good Captain himself. Something else that Mr. Quinn never mentioned. I try to ingrain their names into my brain, if only to spite my annoying History teacher: Steve Rogers. Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader, or Dum Dum Dugan. Jim Morita. James Montgomery Falsworth. Gabriel Jones. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. Jacques Dernier. Samuel “Happy Sam” Sawyer. Jonathan “Junior" Juniper. And Percival “Pinky” Pinkerton.

On the last page of the chapter there is a colorized picture of the elite unit, standing in front of a forest backdrop, chests thrown out all swaggery, laughing and clearly goofing off for the camera. Smiling I lean closer to get a better look at the photograph. 

My heart stops, breath stuttering to a halt in my chest. A chill runs up and down my spine. The books slides from my grasp, my suddenly sweating fingers unable to hang on to the glossy pages and covers. It falls with a _thunk_ to the carpeted floor, shutting. I scramble for it, frenzied fingers flipping feverishly through the pages, clumsy in my sudden hurry, looking, looking… where was it? Where???

There! 

There it is. The chapter. The last page. The photo. And there, there he is. Right in the middle, arm in arm with Captain America. Carefree. Laughing. Happy. 

Winter!

It’s him. I would recognize him anywhere.

My sticky finger scrabbles over the caption below the photograph, searching desperately for the name that matches up with the face.

Here! 

Barnes. Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. James. Ha, I was right!

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

I look back at the picture, trace one finger over the familiar features, stretched into such an unfamiliar expression of pure joy. “Hi, Bucky.” I whisper, testing out the name, mentally assigning it to the sentry of shadows I’ve known for the past two and a half months. Known and grown so fond of.

It suits him. It suits both this roaring with laughter enigma from the photograph that I’ve never seen, and the quietly intense, laser focused, ninja robot that I have. Much more than James did…

I dig through Mr. B’s entire library, collecting every single scrap of information I find about Bucky Barnes. I falter for a minute when I find out that Bucky Barnes died in action in 1945. How could he have died? He was very much alive. Or he really was a ghost?! Or a vampire…

No, don’t be stupid. I know he wasn’t. And besides, is it so very inconceivable? Not really. I mean Captain America, the living legend who kind of lives up to the legend because he’s, you know, _living,_ was supposed to also have died in ’45. Which is the entire point, isn’t it. 

But then if he’s almost 100 years old then why doesn’t he look it? Again, probably for similar reasons why Steve Rogers doesn’t. 

Slowly from what I read and what I myself have figured out I piece together the narrative of The Life of Bucky Barnes. And the story I pen for him breaks my hear a thousand times over. He was Steve Rogers' best friend. He enlisted in the war and went overseas to fight, where he eventually was captured. Captain America saved him, noting that there were clear signs of his best friend having been tortured and experimented on while imprisoned. Together they formed an elite team that took out countless enemies and probably saved even more countless lives. Then on a mission to infiltrate and capture something, or someone from a transport train, Bucky fell from that same train into a ravine. Everyone thought he was dead. That’s where the history books end for him, and my own personal recollections and deductions have to take over. Somehow he survived that fall. Be it a miracle or something more nefarious. Then he must have been found by _them._ And I’m 99.9% sure that I know who _they_ are now. HYDRA. Guess they weren’t all defeated. They experimented on him. Tortured him more. I’ll bet he lost that arm in the fall somehow. And they replaced it with that metal weapon. They kept torturing him like they’d already started to do the first time he was captured. Until they broke him. But I bet they didn’t break him I bet he resisted and so they resorted to brainwashing somehow. Until he was their perfect weapon. And that’s how he’s been for however many dozens of years. Brainwashed. Used. Controlled. Hurt. Unable to remember who he was. Robbed of his memories, his life, his _self._ Forcibly turned from a hero who saved people into a villain made to kill them. A puppet. A prisoner. 

A victim!

God, my heart hurts for him. Aches fiercely. I want to tell him, show him what I’ve found, help him remember. He deserves to remember! Deserves to know that he does have a name and a past and a life and people who care about him still. He deserves to know that he’s a hero. That he isn’t who they made him into and that he never was.

But I have no way of doing that. It’s not like I can just call him up on the phone. And if there’s anything these books have told me, apart from all the stuff about him, it’s that HYDRA is largely believed to be gone. Defeated. So who could I go to who would believe me that a 70 year old super secret evil Nazi ex-science division is still very much alive and thriving underground, probably training an army of very dangerous, brainwashed shadow people.

The cops would throw me in the nut house faster than I could say Winter Soldier.

Damn it! Helplessness wells up inside me. Poor Winter. Poor _Bucky!_

The only thing I can do is to keep digging through these books, I guess. And hope that I’ll find something; anything useful.

That’s how Mr. B finds me when he comes back from school: on his living room carpet with dozens of books spread out open all around me.

He pauses, standing in the doorway, leaning nonchalantly against the jamb and twirling his car keys around one finger. “You’ve been busy.”

I look around me guiltily. “Sorry! About the mess, I mean. I’ll clean it up.”

He laughs, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter and his jacket over the back of one of the high stools. “Don’t worry about it.” Grinning he sinks down cross legged across from me, pulling the nearest book into his lap. “Read anything interesting?”

I hesitate. I want to tell him everything. Everything I’ve just discovered. Everything about the past three months. And Winter. But something stops me. I don’t know what, but there’s a part of me that warns me direly to keep this knowledge to myself, and myself only. If what I’ve found out is even somewhat true, and I strongly suspect it is, then it could put me in a lot of danger. And I do not want to drag Mr. B into that!

“I mean, everything basically. This is all so much more interesting than. Mr. Quinn’s lessons!” The half lie comes out easily.

Mr. B laughs. “Ah yeah, good old Robert. He wouldn’t know how to make history interesting, even if it personally waltzed into his classroom and shot him in the face with a bazooka.”

I laugh at this bizarre but accurate description, then carefully close the book I’m holding. “How was school?”

“Eh. School’s school.”

I smile at the pure teenager-ness of this response. “So, listen, Mr. B… about me being here… are you sure it’s okay? I mean like legally, morally, and personally?”

His smiling face becomes serious. “Are you uncomfortable being here?”

“No.” I assure him quickly, shaking my head. “not at all. I just don’t want to get you in any sort of trouble. And even if legally you can’t get in trouble I also don’t want you to have to deal with the hassle of somebody _trying._ To get you in trouble, I mean.”

“Then don’t worry. The only thing that matters to me is that you don’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve always cared about you, Katie, you know that. And wanted you safe. And now you finally are. If you want to go back to the house and stay there, I’ll take you. If you want to get your own little place, I’ll help you find something. If you want to stay here than you’re welcome to until you get tired of me.”

I feel tears rising in my eyes. “I don’t ever want to go back to that place, but I can’t afford something of my own.”

“You could if you sell the house.”

I go very still. “Could I do that?”

“I’d imagine so. Who else but you could your parents,” he speaks the word with great disdain, “have named as the benefactor of their estates?”

I shrug. “No one, but I doubt it was me anyway.”

“That’s something we can find out. If they wrote a will they’re bound to have kept a copy at home. You might want to think about going back at least once to find that out. And I’m sure there are some things you might want to salvage. Like your camera for example?”

Dammit. My jaw clenches. He’s right. If I want Giselle I’ll have to brave The Hellhouse again. At least it would only be the one time! And I should check for some kind of documentation, regarding what happens to their stuff. Not out of any kind of sense of responsibility or duty to them, but out of… what? Greed? Vengeance? Closure? All three? And once I come to terms with that then maybe I _can_ sell the house! Wouldn’t that be the ultimate middle finger salute to my past?! Or maybe I can get it demolished. I’ll throw a party when the wrecking ball smashes into the wall for the first time!

I wonder if Mr. B is right though? Could I be the benefactor of my parents' wills? Did they even make wills? What happens if they didn’t? But if they did I know exactly where they’ll have been kept. In their bedroom. The sacred holy space. That I was never allowed to even enter. Not even to clean up. I’m willing to bet that it’s gonna be pretty rank in there… Oh well, can’t blame Cinderella for the place not being tidy if you won’t let her into the castle.

Ugh.

I bury my face in in my palms. I don’t want to go back! 

But I can’t stay here either. Despite what I said to Mr. B earlier it feels… wrong. I can’t quite put my finger on why though. I’m not uncomfortable. Or scared. I know Mr. B isn’t gonna do anything or try anything. I trust him. Maybe it _is_ all this Nazi paraphernalia that’s putting me on edge? Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s my teacher? Or maybe I just need to set out on my own now. I’m finally free… yay… Maybe I need to seize this opportunity by the proverbial horns. How? Rent a motel room, until I can figure out if there’s a will and if I’m it? Where would I get the money for that? Did my parents have the stereotypical sock drawer with a wad of cash inside it? If they did could I take it? Would it technically be stealing if I did? _If_ they _did_ leave me everything, and I still think that’s a big _if_ , how long before I could take possession of it? Could I even? I’m not a minor but I’m also not 21 yet? Can vote. Can’t drink. Haha! Can drive? Can’t take possession of inheritance in event of parents' untimely and highly suspicious deaths? Now wouldn’t that be ironic and also just my luck?!

Buuuut… only one way to find out. I take a breath so deep it feels like my lungs might pop from the strain. “Let’s go.”

Mr. B looks at me closely, then nods and stands to retrieve his car keys and coat.

I look down once more at the book I’m still clutching in my lap. My finger is between the pages, marking my place. I peek up at Mr. B to see him with his back to me at the counter, checking his phone. Placated that he’s not looking over my shoulder I flip the book open to look into two eyes more familiar to me than my own, even though I’ve only really looked into them twice. They’re black and white here, but my memory fills in the colors for me. Blue like cornflowers, sapphires, a summer sky. Like ice. Blue like forgetting; like remembering.

Tears for the loss of him prick my eyes, but a smile twitches my lips because I gained his name, and knowledge about who he is at the same time. That name that now along with his face and voice, is going to be forever burned into my brain, heart, and soul.

Bucky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points for history books! Now how do we let him know that she knows?  
> I know, and I know that you know that I know but that I won't let you know.  
> What?  
> Yea i stop making sense early in the morning. Good times.  
> What will happen next?  
> Any guesses?  
> Thank you kindly for reading!!!  
> (I wrote "know" so much up there that my phone just tried to autocorrect "kindly" to "know". 😅 Guess we now all KNOW i overdid it.)  
> Ok I'm going to sleep (k)now!


	20. Remembering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for torture, brainwashing, abuse, and injury  
> This chapter was originally part of a longer one but I split it into two because I saw a kind of natural divide and wanted to do something different with the second half. So now its a bit on the short side. But because of that you'll get the second half sometime later today. I just have to edit it first!

Bucky.

He remembers.

It’s all a blur. So much happened. So much. Too much. A voice. A face. A name. 

Bucky.

He remembers.

A speeding car. Crouching on the hood. The roof. Punching through the windshield to rip out the steering wheel. Pulling the screaming man from the backseat; the target, tossing him carelessly behind, to scrape over the pavement and be crushed by the cars following.

He remembers.

Shooting at the other people in the car. The crash. Firing down from the bridge. A single bullet hitting his goggles, ricocheting off. Cracking them. A woman. A redheaded woman. Vaguely familiar.

He remembers.

Following her. She tricks him with recorded voices. Deactivates his arm. Shoot her. Shoot to kill. But no. She isn’t the mission. And she’s familiar. In more ways than one. Conflicting. Like he both knows her. But doesn’t. And like she reminds him of someone he does know. Firing. A single bullet. Hitting her. Shoulder. Left side. Familiar. Why?

She’s down. 

A man. Man with a shield. Fights him. He’s not the mission either. But he’s attacking. Knife. Shield. Punch. Kick. Block. Duck. Again. 

Close. Something about the man… the voice… the movements… familiar. The face. Familiar. How? Why?

He remembers. 

Remembers what?

Slamming into the pavement. Feeling the mask slip off. Jumps to his feet. Turn. Crouch. Ready to attack and defend. Frozen. The man is frozen. Staring. His mouth drops open. Fists uncurling. Dropping the shield. 

Then the name.

Bucky.

Who the hell is Bucky?

Then recognition. Felt like something else slammed into him. Worse than slamming into pavement.

The man. He was in the car. And on the roof. That night. He knows him. Knew him. No. He doesn’t know him. But he _knows_ him.

He remembers. 

How?

He’s not quite sure what he remembers. But he does. His brain is in agony. It’s not the kind they use to torture him with. This is worse. Because he isn’t used to this. He’s used to the torture. Knows it. Lives it. 

Remembering hurts. 

He doesn’t want to hurt. He hurts enough. This man. It’s his fault. He’s making it hurt. Shoot. Shoot him. Gun. Aim. Fire.

A shout. Something rams into his back hard. Throws him to the ground. Absorb the impact and roll. 

He comes back to his feet facing the first man. The one he knows, but doesn’t. He’s still staring. Face open. Vulnerable. In disbelief. And pain. 

Familiar.

He remembers. 

What?

No. It’s not allowed. Remembering brings pain. Pain like the man brought. Pain that’s twisting his insides. Hurting like a bruise but in his body. Not out.

Doubt. Pain. Unsure. 

Again. Gun. Aim. Pull trigger. 

A whistle. He ducks down on instinct. The world explodes around him. 

No. Not the world. A car. Behind him. Someone fired a grenade into it. Her. The woman. She’s also familiar. And pale. Blood loss. He's seen it before.

He remembers.

Heat. Searing his skin. Fire. Smoke. Clogging his mouth and eyes. 

A voice in his ear. “Abort, soldat. Get out of there.”

Orders. He turns to look one more time at the man. The smoke is too thick. He can’t see him. 

But he remembers. 

He remembered. 

It’s all he can think about. The man on the bridge. So familiar. The name. Bucky. 

Who is Bucky? Is he Bucky? And who was the man? And the red haired woman? And the other ghost he’s remembering? A girl with curly hair? Who are they?

He remembered.

He knows that he needs to remember. Needs to do it fast. Because soon he’ll be wiped. Again. He’s already in the chair. They’re fixing his arm. Soldering. It’s hot. So hot it feels cold. He waits. Waiting. For Pierce. He’ll ask for the mission report and debrief. And he’ll tell Pierce everything that happened on the causeway. He doesn’t have the willpower anymore not to. And Pierce will know. He’ll know already, of course, who the man was. But he won’t tell him. He’ll know who Bucky is too. Was. Is. But he won’t tell him that either. Instead he’ll make him forget. Painfully. So he won’t try to remember again.

But he remembered.

He’s still remembering.

Pictures flash in his brain. Feelings. Emotions. Sensations. A train. Fear. The sensation of falling. Pain. Cold. A horrified face. The man’s face. Growing smaller. Further away.

White. Snow. Red. Blood. Being dragged. Two arms held in front of his face. Two arms, only one hand. Blood. So much blood.

Another face. A rubbery face with glasses. A small man. Zola! His body shudders and convulses. The handlers shout. Pin him down tighter.

A saw. Pain. Explosive, excruciating pain. In his left arm. Another picture. They’re sawing it off. Sawing through skin. Muscles. Bone. Buzzing. Pain!

Zola's voice. “The procedure is almost complete. You are to be ze new fist of HYDRA.”

His breaths punch out between clenched teeth. Another flashing image. Two arms. Two hands. One metal. A shadow leaning over him. The metal hand is suddenly wrapped around a throat. Squeezing. Choking. Killing.

“Put him on ice.”

Zola.

He remembered. 

He lashes out. The handler fixing his arm goes flying into the wall. The others scatter.

Clenched fists.

Mechanical clicking.

He looks up. Right down the barrel of a machine gun. They stand around the perimeter of the room. Pointing their guns at him. He sits. Muscles locked. Shoulders heaving. Mind whirling. 

He remembered.

Pierce comes. They warn him. “He’s unstable,” they say. “Erratic.”

No. He’s not erratic. He’s remembering.

It’s exactly how he thought. Pierce asks. “Mission report.” 

He can’t. Can’t speak. Can’t answer. Cant think. Can only remember.

“Mission report. Now.” Pierce is impatient. Angry. Right in front of him.

He can’t look at him. Can’t speak. Catatonic. Remembering.

Pierce slaps him. Hard. Knocks him loose. Remembering hurts. Pierce hitting him doesn’t. He’s used to it. He can’t stop himself from asking.

“The man on the bridge? Who was he?”

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

No. That sounds wrong. He knew him. More intimately than that. Deeper. Longer.

“… I knew him…”

Pierce sits. “You’re work has been a gift to mankind. You’ve shaped the century.”

He stops listening. He’s heard it all before. It means nothing. 

Pierce finishes. Looks at him intently. Expectantly.

He doesn’t know what else he said. Doesn’t care. All he cares about is remembering. “But I knew him…”

Pierce’s jaw clenches. He stands. “Prep him. Wipe him. Start over.”

Hollow. That’s how he feels. Something drops inside him. Hopeless… Nothing matters… Remembering… No use…

It’s no use…

He feels Pierce’s eyes on him. Knows Pierce wants him to look. He doesn’t. It’s no use. It doesn’t matter. Remembering. Doesn’t matter.

The handlers push him down by his shoulders with trembling hands. Strap down his biceps, forearms, and ankles. His mouth opens automatically. The rubber bite guard slides in.

He won’t look at Pierce. 

Tries to remember while he still can. The man. His face. His voice. The red haired woman. The ghostly apparition of the mysterious girl. The name. Bucky.

The chair tips back. The machine buzzes as it moves into place. Latches on to his face. Sharp metal corners digging into his skin.

Close eyes. Block pain. Don’t scream. Muscles tight.

Remember.

Forget.

Pain.

Inside and out.

He screams.

He remembered.

He forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. My name is babynovakwinchester67, a.k.a. Cas, and I hate Alexander Pierce! Like I hate him. So much. I would love to step on him with one of Lady Gaga's mile high boots! Squish him flat as a pancake! Yucky!  
> K, I'm done. This chapter was interesting to write, like I was trying to show that bucky has reverted into full on winter soldier since last time we saw him hence the super choppy sentences and stuffs. Don't know how well I succeeded. But I did like writing this even though it was haaaaard because I love using scenes from the existing movies and just kind of following along in my writing. It lets me tie it in nicely with canon but its also like a cheat code because the baseline for the chapter has basically been written for me already. So its a nice break sometimes from coming up with everything on my own. I feel like there should be a disclaimer here: I do not own marvel or the winter soldier or any of that ish, I just use them for my own free will by the grace of fanfiction. Yeah.  
> Ok. Thats that. Part 2 will be up in a few hours.  
> Leave comments. Validate me. Love me!  
> Thanks for reading. Love you most with butter and toast!  
> But did I mention I hate Alexander Pierce?!


	21. Lost & Looking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING mostly for angst stuff, painful memories, and some abuse and injury.  
> Here's part 2.  
> A lot happens.  
> Be prepared.  
> Hope you like!

Once upon a time there was a boy from Brooklyn. He was small. Sickly. Always ill. His father was a soldier who died in the First World War. His mother, a nurse, died of tuberculosis. He was always getting picked on for his size, his ailments. But he never knew when to give up. He always tried to fight for everyone even though he couldn’t really defend himself. He was good. He was kind. He was tenacious, and stubborn, and completely ready to do anything as long as it was _right._

His name was Steve Rogers. He was my best friend.

And right now I’m beating him to death.

I remember!

I remember everything. Who Steve is. Who I am. In this moment, as I’m straddling my best friend’s chest, punching his face over and over, turning the features I recognized so distantly yesterday into an unrecognizable mess of blood and bruises, I remember. 

_“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”_

The end of the line. That’s what we’d promised each other. Is this the end of the line then? Me killing him?

No. No, it can’t be. Our story was never supposed to be this. And it sure wasn’t supposed to end like this. We used to joke about it when we were younger. That we’d die still side by side in an old folks’ home, yelling at each other because we were long since deaf, while flying cars went by our window. And I never told him that I used to be afraid every night, because Steve was always so sick. I’d wonder if he would even make it that long. And I would be scared of losing my best friend.

And now he’s dying because of me.

I jump off him, horrified. What have I done?!

The full weight of everything comes crashing down on me, crushing me. What I did. Who I turned into. Everything. Everything reprehensible and wrong and evil… that I did… that I am!

Steve…

I turn back just in time to watch his lifeless body fall through the hull of the slowly falling ship. It’s a sick replay of the last time I saw him as _me,_ only this time our roles are reversed. Back then I saw him, shrinking rapidly as I fell off that damn train, down, down, down, screaming, knowing I was going to die, while Steve clung to the edge of the train unable to save me, unable to catch my hand that was still reaching out to him.

Now he’s falling away from me, but he’s not screaming, and he’s not reaching for me. 

I lurch to the ragged hole in the ship. Watch as his body hits the water, debris raining down around him, sending up great splashes into the muggy air.

Without hesitation I jump, throwing my body into the smoke and fire that surrounds the self destructing heli-carrier, one single thought in my brain. To save my best friend. It’s such a familiar though, even though I haven’t felt it in years. My protectiveness of Steve is burned so deeply into my bones that not even who knows how many years of torture and brainwashing could completely erase it.

I hit the water like a stone, sinking. There’s wreckage all around me, sinking with me. Steve floats slowly downward about twenty feet below. 

I dive, my intent singular. Get to him. Get him out. Save him. Save him like he would have saved me. Do for him what he never got the chance to do for me. Make it up to him now for almost killing him. Save him like he _did_ save me just now! Save him!

My metal fingers close around fabric. His eyes are open slits. He sees me. He always has.

He’s alive. He’s unconscious but alive. I stand looking down at him where he lies on the little pebbly beach where I dragged him out of the river. His lips are blue, his face bruised, but the blood’s been washed off. He coughs without regaining consciousness. Water spews out his mouth.

I look down at him. See the boy I first befriended on the playground when he stood up to the class bullies who were twice his size. I see the teenager who kept on standing up to bullies and thugs and always wound up getting his ass kicked. I see the young man with the grey face, wracked with sickness after sickness. The man with the bags under his eyes who tried to be strong and tell me that he would be alright alone after his mother died, and later ended up collapsing crying in my arms. I see him all the times he was so sick and cold that nothing could warm him up except my body heat when he was curled up against my chest like a cat. I see him smiling over his sketchpad, when he drew me with coal pieces he’d filched from my fireplace and sharpened with my pocket knife. I see him cornered but standing strong in alleyway after alleyway, a black eye, a bloody lip, but never backing down. I hear him tell bully after bully, thug after thug, “I can do this all day!” 

I remember how much I admired him. From the first day we met as kids I admired him. People always got it backwards thinking that I was the one to look up to. But I always knew it was Steve. And looks like he’s proved them all wrong, all those people who doubted him, overlooked him, told him that he couldn’t do it, would never be a hero. 

And me…

I shouldn’t be here. I should go before he wakes up. He can’t know me now, can’t be associated with this person that I’ve become. I know he would make excuses for me, would stand with me. But I can’t let him. Not only will he be in more danger from HYDRA but I can’t be next to him anymore. He is a hero to people now. And I’m the opposite. And no matter if he would stand by me, he doesn’t deserve to be equated to me. 

He would believe I was still good. That I never really stopped being good. That what happened wasn’t me and wasn’t my fault. But I know different. 

And I don’t deserve his friendship anymore. I don’t deserve to call myself friend to someone like Steve. Even before he became Captain America, who I am now would never have been worthy of standing beside Steven Grant Rogers. He’s too good to be tarnished now by… me.

And I could hurt him again. I already beat him within an inch of death. I can’t let that happen again. I need to protect him. From myself most of all.

I can’t let that happen. Not again. I need to go. He’ll be alright. The selfish desire to stay and make sure overwhelms me. But I know it’s just an excuse. I know that if he wakes up and I’m still here he won’t let me go. I know he might come after me anyway, try to find me. I’ll just have to hide from him too, as well as from HYDRA. I already have to hide. What’s one more person? But Steve is more stubborn and bullhead than all of HYDRA combined. I’ll have to be careful. Careful that he never finds me. I can never see him again.

The thought hurts worse than anything.

I look down at him one last time. See his eyelids flutter, his hands twitch. He’s waking up. I need to go, need to be gone when he does.

I turn, soundlessly, letting the thicket of thorns that brackets the beach swallow me, feeling the thorns poke holes into my skin and heart.

  
I lose the whole day and night. My mind is too full of memories, thoughts, feelings, nightmares, what I think are real memories but could also be fake ones planted by HYDRA… I don’t know exactly what’s real anymore. And everywhere I look I’m bombarded with new things. New memories and feelings. New memories that are actually old ones. Old memories that are new again. From before. From during. 

When I find out what year it is I can’t breathe. The newspaper I pulled out of a garbage can in an empty park, falls to the ground, the pages scattering in the wind. 

2014!

70 years. I lost almost 70 years. 

The entire world is different now. Faster. Louder. Cars still can’t fly. I have vague memories from my time as the Winter Soldier and I know that I must have known all this, but it’s blurry. Everything in my mind is blurry. The memories are there. I can feel them. But it’s like they’re buried and I have to dig each of them out. But I have to do it carefully because one wrong move will start a mudslide in my mind that will crush me under its weight of guilt and sorrow and loss and hatred.

I wander. Trying to remember. Trying to not remember. I don’t know what I am now; who I am. Who am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to be? Where can I go?

I wind up in front of a house. It’s a modest two storey house, looking like a perfect cross between run down and taken care off. At first I don’t know it; can’t remember being here before, ever. But then my eyes find the top right side window all by themselves. And the sight of that window knocks loose one of those stones in my mind. An avalanche of memories crashes through me.

A rooftop. A park. Fireworks. A bench. A photograph. Smiles and food and curly hair. Warmth and kindness. Laughter. 

Kate!

Kate! How could I forget her? 

That’s a rhetorical question. I know exactly how. But how could I not remember her immediately when I remembered everything else? How could I not remember the only person who showed me kindness in 70 years?!

I know I promised her not to do this again, but I need to see her. Need to know that she’s alright. I remember the bruises on her body and the pain in her eyes all too well. And I left her alone with that.

Granted, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I did it anyway. And a selfish part of me wants to see her, to let her see me and show her that I’m not who she met. Not completely at least. I want to show her that she was right. She saw through who they made me into, saw that I was still in there somewhere. 

And now... do I want her to see that she was right, or am I just selfish and want to see her?

The house is empty. No one has been here in days. A thin coat of dust covers everything. She hasn’t been here. Where is she? Is she okay? Did they hurt her? No. No I don’t think they did. If they did they would have told me. Showed me. I know HYDRA and how they operate. They would have brought her in to be killed in front of my eyes to show me what happens when I get attached to things. To show me not to do it again. To punish and hurt me.

But what if they hurt her since I… left. Quit? Retired? Remembered who I was, and my heart, mind, and conscience? No, that doesn’t make sense either because then there wouldn’t be a layer of dust over the furniture already. It’s barely been 24 hours since… the heli-carrier. And the river. And Steve.

Guilt twists my insides. It hurts. But at least I can feels something again. Steve… I hurt him. And Kate. I hurt her too. I hurt people, so many people. I don’t remember them all but I know I did. And I know that I’ll remember them all one day. Because I can feel them. The memories of them. They’re scratching at that wall that HYDRA built in my brain. The wall that separated me from who they made me into. And I can feel all the ghosts of the people I hurt and killed tearing down that wall. And when they do I’ll remember them. And it will destroy me.

But I’ll deserve that!

Kate. Think about Kate. I’ll have to face my demons someday. Right now focus on figuring out what happened to Kate and if she is safe. Oh God, what if she isn’t?!

No, she’s okay. She has to be. I turn in a slow circle to survey the room, looking for any clue as to where she might have gone. What I’ll do if I find one I don’t know, don’t even want to think about. No, actually I do. I’ll rip HYDRA apart piece by piece if they hurt her. I’ll use this goddamn, cursed arm they gave me to throttle them all! My first instinct is to go after her. Find her. I know I could. But I can’t. It could put her in danger, and I’d never want that. Besides she shouldn’t be around me anyway, and not just because of HYDRA and the threat they still pose to me and anyone I care about that they could use against me. She shouldn’t be around me because I am a bad person. Still. I was and I am now.

I feel a frown cross my face when my eyes land on the scattered squares of paper strewn across the floor beneath her desk. I crouch down, swiping up the one nearest to my feet. An explosion of color in a dark night sky. Fireworks. It’s one of the photographs she took the night she asked me to run away with her. What would have happened if I had followed my long dormant heart and gone? Probably I would be have wound up in the same place I was in a few days ago anyway. Punished and controlled. Hurt. Missing her. But instead of disappeared she would be dead. And then they would have made me forget. And still go to kill Steve. And then I would have remembered him, and her, and what I did, and what I caused, and it would all be so much worse.

I pick up another photograph. A copper statue laced with icicles. The night I’d first followed her into the park. That she didn’t run screaming from me then is a miracle all by itself… Another. Stripes of light yellow and orange behind a red ball. The sunrise from the rooftop. Our rooftop. I wonder if she’s there.

I start to pick up all the little squares, sorting through them faster and faster, looking for… there. Everything inside of me clenches. I’m buried under a wave of feelings like I haven’t felt in… forever. I feel like I’m drowning in them. My heart beats so hard it hurts. I can’t breathe. My hand is sticky with sweat on the photograph. My eyes sting. Buzzing fills my head. 

Her face smiles back at me from the small piece of glossy paper, lips stretched wide around bright, slightly crooked teeth. Eyes crinkling on her laughter. Curly hair bouncing around her face and shoulders, frozen in time by the picture that I took, of a laugh that I caused. If that was my one truly good accomplishment over the past 70 years then I can accept that!

I touch the small oval of her face with one finger, then rise quickly, tucking the paper into the inside pocket of my jacket. I probably shouldn’t be here for too long, despite the fact that I don’t think she lives here anymore. HYDRA might be keeping tabs on the place. I still don’t know how they found out about that single meeting with her anyway. 

I look up at her desk which is littered with pens and papers and books. In the middle is a spiral bound notebook, lying open, facedown. 

My fingers brush the notebook. I wanted to take one yesterday from the department store where I stole the clothes I now wear and the backpack I’m carrying. I wanted the notebook because I had this vague idea of writing down the things I remember now, the things I know I’ll remember soon, and questions that I want answered. Maybe writing it down will help me make sense of the mess in my head. Untangle the thoughts that are mine and the ones that are still theirs, that they planted. I didn’t end up stealing a notebook though because I felt bad. I already stole enough.

I pick up her notebook now, closing it carefully. There’s a red glitter heart on the cover which is white. She’s picked off over half of the fake sequined rhinestones that make up the heart, leaving it looking cracked and broken. I wonder if she did that subconsciously or on purpose.

I think about writing her a note. Something to tell her that I’m ok. That I’m safe now. Well, safer. To say thank you. But I don’t think she’ll see it, because I don’t think she’s been here or is coming back. Maybe she did run away the way she’d wanted to with me. I hope she did.

Gently I peel back the cover, wondering what she wrote, knowing that I shouldn’t. Haven’t I already invaded her privacy enough? Then, and now by being in her room again. But I can’t stop myself, and so I justify it by saying that maybe there’s a clue in here about her whereabouts. Which I know is stupid. But I need to know that she’s safe.

The pages are covered in writing. It takes me a few moments to figure out that these are notes, probably from her schoolwork. There doesn’t seem to be much of a system here from page to page. She jumps from jotting down math calculations, to scientific symbols, to sloppily sketched and labeled diagrams of bugs, to lists of dates, to bullet points about Shakespeare quotes. 

I keep flipping pages, skimming these notes, looking at her penmanship; messy but organized at the same time. Scrawling sideways and slanted, but in neat groupings of bullet points. It’s exactly how her story telling always was, when she sat with me on the roof and talked to me. She was all over the place, backtracking, contradicting herself, remembering different obscure facts, going off on tangents. But I whatever she told me was always interesting. I liked listening to her talk then. 

Her notes are like that. I like reading them now. A small scribble in the margin of a page catches my attention. _There is nothing so cold and beautiful as Winter…_ She’s decorated the quote with crooked line drawings of snowflakes. The capitalization of the last word tells me that she was probably talking about me, but maybe meant it as a double entendre, since she told me at least twice that she associates me with winter despite the name she gave me.

I wonder when she wrote this. Was it after the fireworks? When she hugged me? Or after I disappeared? Or even before. I don’t really know when she got attached to me, or I to her. My muted emotions from then couldn’t tell. I might be able to figure it out now that I can think and feel clearly again, but I’m still afraid of delving back into this past. I know I’ll find things I won’t like!

Almost unconsciously my hand crawls over the surface of her desk until I find a pen. I uncapped it and flip to an empty page. Blue lines stare back at me. Blank. A blank page, waiting to be filled. Kind of like me. I am a blank page waiting to be filled with the memories I’m working so hard at suppressing.

I press the nib of the pen into the paper. What do I write? There’s so much. There’s not enough. 

_Kate._

Unsurprisingly it’s her name that appears first, the blue ink glistening slightly as it dries. I want to remember her, she was something good in the past years. The only good thing. Even though I only knew her for the blink of an eye in those 70 years. Now what do I write about her? What can I write about her? Nothing I can say could do her justice. My memories of her are dulled but still she shines like a beacon through my dark mind. How can I adequately express that? I’m no poet, I was never good with words. So what do I say?

_Good. Kind. Funny. Made me feel alive. Passionate. Sad. Hurt. Protective. Creative. Beautiful._

It’s a start. It doesn’t begin to do her justice. Part of me wonders if I’ve idolized her in my brain because she was so bright in my dark existence. But I doubt it. I was more coherent and present when I was with her. I saw things much more clearly and the way they really were. So I must have seen her accurately too. 

I take the photograph of her back out of my pocket and tuck it between the pages of the notebook. Now she’s with me. Maybe one day I’ll find her again. When I’ve atoned for all the evil I’ve done. 

But if that’s the limit I’m setting for myself then I already know that I won’t ever see her again. Because I’ll never be able to make up for the things I did… And maybe that’s for the best. I hope she can find the happiness she deserves. I hope the fact that she appears to have left this place means she’s trying. 

I stand up and look around. I don’t think I’ll find anything here… The notebook? I place it carefully in my backpack. I hope she won’t be mad at me for stealing it, if she discover that it’s gone. I have no doubt in my mind that she’ll figure out what happened to it. I take a deep breath. Somehow even being in her space, around her essence, or just the muted memories of her have brought me more calm than I could have expected. But that’s how it’s always been with her. She grounded me, brought me back to myself. Even when I was completely lost. Maybe one day I’ll go look for her. I know I could track her down if I wanted to, and maybe she would accept me as her friend again. If not… well, I’d understand. And I would leave her alone. It would be easy to go to her in hopes that she’d help me the way she always has. But it wouldn’t be fair. Not to her. I can’t just dump the responsibility on her, the expectation that she has to help me figure out my past, my present, and my future. I know she would. But it’s not right of me to make her do that. I need to do it by myself first. I have to find myself first, rediscover who I was, figure out who I am now. If I ever want to have any hope of being a worthy enough person to be around my friends again then I need to work this out. I don’t know if I can. But I need to try. I owe it to the people who once believed in me to try…

Maybe I even owe it to myself too?

However long it takes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really starting to think that this story is gonna be just ike my other one. With that one id originally planned for around 20 chapters and wound up with 69. I said that this story would be shorter and planned for like 30 chapters. But I don't think that's gonna happen. I have soooo much stuff still planned! Like in my mind we're not even halfway done yet.  
> Yeek. Hope that didn't scare anyone off!  
> Anyway, have a bucky. An actual bucky b barnes! Innit exciting? He's so hard to write!!! I hope I did okay. Any suggestions for how to write him better or what you might have done different are more than welcome. This isn't the last time we'll be hearing his voice!  
> Thank you for reading!!!  
> Oh and to Kaogasm, I hope the chapter was worthy of your morning coffee time!


	22. Rediscover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Finally another chapter. Sorry it took so long.  
> TRIGGER WARNING for mild angst and some troubled memories. But other than that I think its a good one. Took me forever to write though.  
> Also don't hate me for the time jump!

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

The rooftop I’m sitting on is tiny. But for once it’s mine. Really and truly mine. To that end I have made it so. I’ve strung up strands of twinkly fairy lights and wind chimes everywhere. Flowerpots stand, lean, hang, or balance precariously on every available surface, hook, or beam. I have a tomato plant now. And beans. Peas. Carrots. One measly cucumber that refuses to grow bigger than my pinky. I have roses. And geraniums. Dozens of geraniums that hang out in long rectangular pots over the edge of my rooftop balcony. Sunflowers with blooms bigger than my head. I also have the world’s smallest blueberry bush and a stubborn growth of ivy slowly taking over my glass sliding door.

With the help of Mr. B I’ve built a little wooden shelter right in the middle of all the shrubbery, so that I can sit outside in the rain too. I have my trusty space heater there, and an Indian style axminster that I got from my therapist and new friend Priya.

Priya is another new development in my fresh start life, that was unexpected but surprisingly turned out so much for the better. After I eventually came back to school Mr. B corralled me into seeing our school counselor in those last few months before graduation, and she wound up referring me to a colleague of hers in the private sector. Priya. She’s wonderful! She’s helped me so much already, when I never expected anything the first time I came in. I only went at Mr. B’s insistence. And the first few meetings I barely said anything, just sat there. But eventually through lots of gentle coaxing Priya got me to open up. And I told her. First about my parents. I remember being so afraid that she was going to judge me for not missing them since the sole reason I was sitting there on that armchair across from her was because I was apparently grieving so much and unable to cope with the loss. But she didn’t. She listened. She supported me. And she gave me insight!

Eventually I told her about Winter too. Sort of. Not the whole truth. Just select parts of it, making it out like he was a friend of mine, implying that we were close in age, and that he, like me, lived in an abusive household. Not the truth, but passable with some stretch of the imagination. And it was more the emotions connected with him that I wanted her help sorting through. I called him J. ‘Cause, you know, _James._ I told her that at first we were distant, weary of each other but we got closer and started to trust one another. I told her how I eventually saw him as my best friend, confidante, and the only one who really understood me. And that I thought he felt the same way at least a little bit. And then I told her that he left. That he just abandoned me, left me. Vanished. Priya helped me see that it might not have been intentional. That everything that my parents did to me to isolate me and keep me friendless was probably also happening to “J". Obviously the parent analogy was inaccurate, but her helping me understand that cleared my head enough to realize that what had probably happened. _They_ had made him stop seeing me. This got rid of the irrational anger I had toward Winter, did nothing for my sadness, and ramped up my worry for him about a thousand fold. Priya helped with that too. She told me that from what I’d told her about “J", he sounded strong. At least half as strong and resourceful as me. Her words. And that if I managed to get out of my situation maybe he would too. And if and when he did she was sure he would come find me. Other than that there wasn’t anything I could really do at this point because I knew nothing concrete about his “home" situation. 

I did in fact try to do something… but I wasn’t especially successful. But thinking of that just makes me frustrated again, as well as sad, and so I tend to try and avoid it.

So I just kept hoping. Hoping that one day Winter would come back, or that I’d get a sign from him, or even see him on the news as some shadowy figure that had been spotted doing questionable things. But no, that wouldn’t have happened; he was too careful.

And the days passed. Looking back they passed fast, although each separate day felt excruciatingly long. But a lot happened in a very short time that made everything seem very rapid and unreal almost, in retrospect. I moved out of Mr. B’s the day after the one and only time I returned to the house of my parents. I did find both a stash of cash in their bedroom as well as a will. Mr. B contacted his lawyer and, well, long story short, the shit was mine. Legally. It was enough to set me up in a dingy motel room for a while and from there Mr. B helped me find this apartment, which at first was little better and just a touch less dingy than the motel. But I very quickly turned it into my own comfortable safe haven. For the first time ever I was glad that I’d been held back all those years ago. Because if I wasn’t off age there’s no way that anyone would have let a high school kid live in an apartment on her own!

Other than that my parents had left me quite a substantial fee which was surprising to say the least. As a matter of fact I had no idea that they had this much laid off to the side given the fact that my father was mostly apparently drunk off his ass and job hopping since I was 6… But either way I don’t think they did it out of the goodness of their hearts though, probably more because it wasn’t like there was anyone else to give it to. Or because even in the prospect of death they wanted to protect their public image and how would that have reflected on them to have their only child receive nothing?! Whatever their reasoning was, I inherited everything and with the selling of the house I now have more than enough to afford this tiny little studio apartment with rooftop access, fix it up, and live there comfortably. I even have enough now for college if I want to! I’ll have to work to support myself through it, if I do decide to go but for someone who never expected that path to be open for them in any capacity, that’s monumental! 

The last 4 months of school were… interesting. I actually wound up graduating with some of the best grades in my class, and definitely the best grades I’d ever made personally. It was this strange notion of actually having time to do all of my schoolwork for once because I didn’t have to clean the whole house after school everyday, while also not being in a boozed out haze most of the time. It also helped that doing schoolwork kept me at least somewhat busy and distracted, ergo less time to dwell on my worry and memories of Winter. Plus I’m pretty certain that a lot of my teachers felt sorry enough for me, the poor sudden orphan, that they probably bumped up my grades by a considerable margin. Maybe some of them were even impressed by my new sudden work ethic. Who knows. All that matters is that I graduated with a good GPA, and now, along with the money I inherited, have a real shot at college.

I’m thinking art school. Because along with the grades and new financial stability I also have another awesome bullet point to put on my application and artistic résumé. With the help of Mr. B and one of his curator friends I got my own photography exhibition in one of Washington’s mid sized, medium well known art galleries!!! I still can’t believe that that actually happened, even though the exhibition has been running for two weeks now and is slated to run for one more. Mr. B prodded me into bringing in my portfolio and the curator really liked my work. So now I’m at the gallery every night walking around and making connections, meeting people, and incredibly just witnessing them appreciate _my_ art. It feels surreal every day!

There’s also a guest book at the front door of the gallery where the visitors can write comments about the show and the work as they leave. Leo, the curator, lets me take it home every night, on the premise that I’ll return it in time for opening the next day. So that’s what I’m doing at the moment. I’m reading what people are saying about _my_ photos while sitting on _my_ rooftop, on _my_ luxurious carpet, basking in the last rays of the warm late July sun, a cup of coffee beside me, and the guest book open on my lap.

_Amazing works!_

_So much emotion!_

_Ordinary subjects photographed in an extraordinary way!_

_This artist is so talented. She’s going to go far, I know it!_

_These are photographs I would love to hang in my living room as large prints. Stunning!_

I read slowly, my finger tracing lovingly over the words, feeling the indents the pen made in the thin pages, a big smile on my face as I take the praising words right into my soul.

“Kate?” the voice comes from behind me. As soon as I hear it everything inside me goes absolutely still. My finger on the page freezes, my other hand clutches the book so hard the paper crinkles. The smile slides slowly off my face like rain off a windowpane. Really there is no reason that I should have been expecting to hear that voice again, now or ever. It’s been six months, two weeks, five days, and seventeen hours after all. And while I’m still sitting on a rooftop, as is clearly my norm, it's not _the_ rooftop. _Our_ rooftop. But still I don’t jump or cry out or even feel in any way surprised or startled. I just turn around slowly, looking over my shoulder, eyes going unerringly to him.

And _then_ I’m surprised. He looks different than he normally does, than how I remember him. How he’s burned forever into my mind. The tactical gear is gone; the all black, the guns, the buckles and belts, the heavy boots. Instead he wears a burgundy long sleeved shirt and faded jeans. He still wears boots, but these are brown and look more like ones you’d go hiking in instead of ones you’d use to stomp people into the pavement. A faded gray baseball cap is pulled low into his face.

He’s not wearing the mask or goggles either and he’s not holding them in his hands. Instead he holds a scuffed up navy blue backpack by one shoulder strap. His face too is different. Softer, calmer. Sadder. Emotional, I realize with a jolt! Deeply, _deeply_ emotional. Vulnerable.

“Hi, Winter…” I say softly.

He licks his lips slowly and swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. Nervous? Maybe.

“That’s not actually my name.” he says quietly, and it’s there in his voice too; the elusive emotion. 

“No.” I agree. “It’s James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.”

His ocean blue eyes register surprise but then he nods, almost as if he should have expected this. “When did you figure it out?”

“About two weeks after the last time I saw you.”

“Around the time that I did then.”

“When did you?”

He looks away out over the city. “While I was trying to beat my best friend to death.”

Oh. “What stopped you?”

“He did.” 

Well then… he may seem different but he's still as much as a riddled enigma as he always was. 

“How did you find me?”

He pushes a hand through his hair. “I’ve always known where you were.”

Oh. I guess the stalker aspect may still be prevalent. Not sure how I feel about that.

His cheeks redden. “I’m sorry. That sounded incredibly creepy. I didn’t mean it like that.” He’s flustered. This is new. “I haven’t been following you. Not like I did back then. But I… I always had this feeling that you were ok. That you were better now. And then I saw your picture in a newspaper. And there was an article, a review for your exhibition. I went to see it. You were there. And then… then I followed you here. I wanted to talk to you before now but I was too afraid. I’m sorry!”

Wow. I’m blinking rapidly, my brain overwrought with everything he’s telling me. The following me home aspect is lost to the much more important he saw my exhibition aspect! He actually went to see it. “Did you like it?”

“Your exhibition?”

I nod.

A small smile plays over his lips. “It was incredible. You’re very talented. But I’ve always known that.”

I laugh. “Yeah, you were one of few people who knew.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you. I should have talked to you at the gallery, or outside it, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me.” His hand pushes through his hair again. Is this a nervous habit i see? And wow! Not only is he actually showing emotion, he’s admitting to them too. So this then is Bucky Barnes. 

It’s crazy. I know this man in front of me better than I’ve ever known anyone in my life. But at the same time I don’t know him at all.

“I’m glad you saw the exhibition.”

He looks down at his boots making his hair fall into his face, then from beneath the sweep of brown gives me a small smile that can really only be described as shy. “People really seemed to like it.”

“Surprisingly.”

“Why are you surprised?”

I shrug noncommittally. This is so… I don’t even know. Crazy? Amazing? Crazy-amazing? I haven’t seen him in almost seven months but already it feels like nothing has changed. But actually everything has! “Do you wanna sit down?”

I think I surprise him. He takes a small step closer, inspecting my face. This is familiar, and I smile at that. Patting the space next to me for emphasis I scoot a bit to my left to give him more room among all my flowerpots. 

He sits, carefully lowering himself to the ground beside me. His body is strung tight, but this is not the menacing tightness I know, it’s more of a nervous tension. Like he’s afraid I’ll yell at him to get the fuck away from me or something, at any moment.

I watch him. He watches me. Weary and wary at the same time. His blue eyes flit all over my face and there seems to be some sort of… desperation in them.

“I’ve missed you.” I say softly.

He swallows heavily, his eyes sliding closed for a second. “You did?”

I nod, my silence necessitating him to open his eyes again. “A lot.”

He blinks a few times. “Me too.”

I smile at that. I came to terms with it about four months ago that I wouldn’t see him again. And now that he’s here… well… it feels… right. Like something that was missing is back. Like I’m whole again, or something. Which is ridiculous given that I only knew him for like barely two months, and at least one of those I was constantly afraid that he was gonna kill me.

“Kate?”

“Bucky?”

He smiles at the name and I grin back. “I like hearing you say that.”

“Sounds right.”

He reaches out his hand to me leaving it palm up between us. I don’t hesitate at all, immediately placing mine in his. His fingers still feel warm, and calloused, and familiar. But this time when he squeezes my hand it’s not too hard, or like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It feels natural. Right.

“I’m sorry.”

I frown. “What for?”

“Leaving."

Oh. That. “It wasn’t your fault, was it? I mean you didn’t want to leave?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“What happened?” 

He shudders, fingers tightening around mine slightly, but not too tight. Not like back then. “They found out.”

“HYDRA?”

He looks at me silently for long moments. “You really did figure out everything, didn’t you?”

I shrug. “Probably not _everything_ everything. But I think I pieced together quite a bit. I was mad at you at first, you know? Because I thought you’d just left me. But that was stupid. I should have realized right away what must have happened. So I’m sorry too.”

His jaw is working, I can see muscles ticking in his cheek. “Are you scared?”

“Of you? No. I haven’t been in a long time.”

“Maybe you should be.”

I can’t help it; I huff a small laugh. “You’ve said that before.”

An involuntary smile teases his own lips. “I did, didn’t I?”

“So are you completely free? From them?”

“I don’t know. There’s still… shadows in my head. But I don’t report to them anymore.”

“Good.” I move a little bit closer to him. He watches me.

“What about you? Your mother?”

“Dead.”

He actually looks surprised, his head turning sharply to look directly at me. “When?”

“About a week after you disappeared. It wasn’t you then?”

“No.” he pauses. “Did you think it was?”

I bite my lip, thinking about my answer. I was never able to come to an actual conclusive opinion. There were parts of me that always believed that he was behind it and other parts that didn’t. “I wasn’t sure… I mean, I know you threatened her that one time. But… I didn’t think you’d actually have killed them. But… it was just such a strange coincidence.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, my dad too. Car accident.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I did threaten her. I forgot about that.” 

“You did?” 

“I forgot a lot of things. They come back to me sometimes by themselves, other times if something specific triggers them.”

“So you didn’t forget about having killed them? I didn’t trigger a memory about that?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes searching my face. “No. I didn’t do that.”

“Ok.”

“You believe me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Oh…” he sounds so surprised that it wrings my heart. He’s also slightly squeezing my hand, I think unconsciously. 

“What do you do now? Where have you been the past six months?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere. I’ve been trying to find myself again. To remember. It’s… hard. Sometimes it’s like trying to hold onto water. I just… can’t. The memories are there but I can’t quite get to them. And sometimes I can’t hold on to them.”

“Have you tried writing them down?”

“I have actually.” He carefully pulls his hand from mine, turning away to pull open his backpack. He plops it down between us and gestures for me to look inside. When I do I see that its full of notebooks. Cheap, three-ring or spiral bound composition books with a rainbow of different colored covers. One in particular catches my attention. Carefully I pull it out of the jumble. 

“This is mine…” my fingers trace the picked apart heart on the worn white cover before I look up at him, questions in my eyes.

He nods. “I went to your house. After… I remembered. I didn’t mean to actually. I just wound up there subconsciously. And you weren’t there and by the looks of it hadn’t been in a long time.”

“Yeah, after my parents… died I only went back the one time. It probably wasn’t long before you did. We might have just missed each other by a couple of hours.”

He’s looking at me, just looking at me. And it’s frustrating because before when he did that I wouldn’t be able to discern his emotions because I couldn’t see any of them on his face. And now… now there’s too many of them warring with each other that I can’t tell which one takes predominance. I look back down at the notebook. “Can I look inside?” The last thing I want to do is invade his privacy!

He nods.

Carefully I open the cover. I’m greeted immediately by pages of my own notes. The edges of these pages are worn, like he’s thumbed through them a lot. I look up at him to find him still watching me. “Here…” he says, reaching forward to flip a bunch of pages at once. Right to the divide between my writing and his. There’s an upside down photograph between the pages, marking the place.

I flip it over. Immediately memories come streaming back, and I wonder if this is how he feels every day.

The photo is of me. Smiling. Laughing actually. It was that last day that I saw him, when I went to the rooftop during daylight hours, never expecting him to be there, but he was. I’d explained my camera to him. He’d made me laugh, then taken my picture. The exposure settings were all wrong, and the aperture too, but the focus was on me and you could clearly see me and how happy I looked. Something I only was around him back then. “Where did you get it?”

“Off the floor in your room.”

“Oh yeah… I forgot I dumped them all last time I was there. Something about memories and feeling too sad.” I sigh. “Have you been carrying it with you everywhere?”

“Yes. Especially because I lost the other one you gave me. The firework.”

“The purple Catherine’s Wheel.”

He nods.

"That seems forever ago now... that night we watched the fireworks."

"It does. But it also doesn't." He's playing with my fingers, absently I think, looking out at the horizon and the setting sun which casts warm copper tones into his brown hair, reminding me of the time he remarked on my hair being purple, again during that night we watched those fireworks.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if things had turned out different…”

“Different how?”

“Mainly what would have happened if we had been able to run away together when I first suggested it.”

“They would have followed us.”

I shrug. “Maybe. You would have kept me safe. And aren’t they following you now? And they haven’t found you.”

“It’s different. I’m different. I don’t know if I could have evaded them in the same way while I was still technically under their control.”

“But you were different with me too. I mean you’re even more different now, but I’d still recognize who you were with me now more than I would who they made you into.”

He’s silent for a long time. When he speaks it’s slow and thoughtful. “I was different with you. And only now that I’m back with you do I see that the way I felt then really was the most similar to how I felt now. But I’m still different.”

I nod. “I still think we could have made it work somehow. And who knows, maybe being around me 24/7 would have broken their hold on you too?”

He smiles over at me. “Maybe.”

“Guess we’ll never know…” I say morosely, thinking of all the time we lost, and all the pain we both suffered, especially him.

““Of all the words of mice and men the saddest are it might have been.”” 

I look at him surprised. “Vonnegut?”

He smiles. “Yeah. I’ve been frequenting libraries.”

“I can see you reading Vonnegut. Also Dostoyevsky.”

“Haven’t read him yet.”

I lean slightly towards him. It’s an unconscious act on my part, but I strongly suspect that it’s less so on his part, when he mirrors me until our shoulders lean into each other. The cold from his metal arm seeps into my skin through the layers of our clothing. “It’s still as good a quote as any to describe it…”

I feel him taking a deep breath beside me. He holds it for long moments, long enough for me to peek over at him out of the corner of my eye to make sure he’s not like, choking or something. When he lets it out it’s almost as if I can see something else being let go, a weight of sorts lifting off him.

We sit in silence for a while more. 

Again I'm the one who breaks it. He still seems to be more content with it than I am. “Where are you living right now?”

He shrugs. “Nowhere.”

I’d almost expected this. “Then where do you sleep?”

“Park benches mostly. Sometimes I’ll break into empty motel rooms and spend the night there. I’m gone before they open in the mornings.”

“Is that what you’re gonna do tonight?”

“Most likely.”

I chew the inside of my cheek while peering at him sideways. “You could stay here…”

He looks at me sharply. “Here?” 

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “On my sofa. It’s big enough. And I’ve got extra bed stuff.” 

I don’t know why I’m doing this… inside my head Good Kate and Bad Kate are both screaming at me not to; weirdly united for once, although their reasonings differ. Good Kate is reminding us of The Rules Of Womanhood And Keeping Your Delicate Feminine Self Safe In The Fucking Patriarchy, a manual she’s extensively developed for us which lists Do Not Invite Strange Men Into Your House And/Or Don’t Go Home With Them Either You Trollop as its first and most important rule. Bad Kate is loudly reminding us of the fact that this is a master assassin who’s tried to kill us before and he may be rehabilitated but who the fuck knows that for sure. We didn’t escape our abusive life to wind up murdered in our bed or robbed of our well deserved inheritance, she proclaims. 

I don’t listen to either of them. As per usual. I know it’s silly. Stupid even, maybe. Foolhardy. I don’t know this man. Not really. I didn’t know him then, and I certainly don’t know him now. Two months is nothing. In fact I spent longer missing him and pining for him then I spent actually knowing him! 

But dammit, I _know_ him. I do! I know he won’t hurt me. He didn’t, even when he was literally programmed to hurt! And he won’t now. I trust him! I don’t know how I can be so, so sure, but I am! I am!

And there’s a part of me, bigger than I feel ready to admit, that is scared shitless that if I let him out of my sight for even a moment, he’ll disappear again for another six months, or maybe forever. And, fuck, that thought hurts!

His eyes are glued to my face, flitting all over it, reading it; me. “I don’t want to impose.” He says politely but I know what he’s really saying. _I don’t want you to be afraid having me under the same roof._

I shake my head, imagining that I’m shaking out those stupid, ingrained insecurities too. “You wouldn’t be.” I tell him, hoping he too, will get my double meaning. That _I_ wouldn’t be. Afraid, that is.

He closes his eyes. I can see the indecision warring on his face and that fact alone almost makes me forget what I was about to say. “Please. I’d hate to think of you sleeping in some dirty, cold, cockroach infested motel room. Or worse, on a park bench outside. I think it’s supposed to rain tonight too. Please stay. I’m okay with it. Really.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You won’t.” I try for a feeble joke. “I’ll honestly be more inconvenienced if you don’t stay, ‘cause then I’ll be up all night worrying.”

My attempt at humor works to sway him, or rather he lets it work. After searching my face for a few more seconds, his relaxes into a soft and easy smile. “Well, we can’t have that.”

I smile back at him. “Alright. Come on then. Let’s find you some pillows and a teddy bear.”

And so I stand up and let the Winter Soldier into my house and back into my life as Bucky Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yerp. There ya have it. What do we all think of the time hop? I needed to give both of them a bit of time to find themselves so they could be better and stronger once they were back together. And the notion of writing that seemed overwhelming. We'll find out what they each did in those 6 months, cause I'll have them talk about it but yea, it was easier for me to skip it and I think in the long run it'll make more sense this way. We might also be deviating from the timeline a bit now because I'm actually not sure how much time passes between TWS and CACW. But even if the timeline's wonky it'll still follow events up to a point. Though I'll change some things.  
> Also any other supernatural fans in the house? Can I just say I've been freaking out about 15x18. And the end like literally a week away. I will be crying here to all of you and a whole bunch of people probably won't have any clue why I'm blubbering.  
> Anyway. Hope you liked that.  
> Leave me a comment if you wish. Literally can be anything. Doesn't even have to relate to the story. I'm just a slut for comments and I love hearing from you alls!  
> Thanks for reading!!!  
> 💝💝💝


	23. Early Morning Omelettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo. New chapter. Its been like what? 10 years. But seriously, I'm sorry I went AWOL on you all. School was a bit overwhelming and I ran face first into a giant thing of writer's block. But here's this now. And I think I should be able to write and post more often now too, because winter break and my next semester isn't quite so hectic. Anyways let's get on with it. There's not really any TRIGGER WARNINGS here except for angst maybe. Its mostly just tentative fluff. Enjoy.

I wake up abruptly, sitting bolt upright in my bed. Outside the window a bird chirps. The sun’s only barely up, the light is still pale and runny, like watercolor paints. 

It was a dream. It was a dream, I tell myself. It had to have been a dream. I’m not that lucky.

I sink back into the pillows, closing my eyes with a sigh. It was a nice dream.

Then, like I’ve been electrocuted, I sit upright again. 

I smell coffee.

Why do I smell coffee? My door and window are closed. There’s no way the smell could be seeping in from outside. It has to be coming from inside my apartment. But how could it be? 

Unless…

It wasn’t a dream?

I fling my blankets to the side and stumble out of bed, stubbing my toe on the leg of my bed. “Mother _fucker_!” the exclamation is automatic. In reality I barely even register the pain. 

I practically explode out of my bedroom and sprint down the pathetic excuse for a “hallway" that separates it and my kitchen/living room. I slide into this on my bare feet, my eyes immediately meeting worried sky blues over a steaming carafe of coffee.

“Are you okay? I heard you swearing.”

“You’re here.”

He blinks at me. “I am.”

“I thought I dreamed it.”

A small smile teases his lips. “Me too. Until I fell off your tiny sofa.”

Oh. Shit. “Sorry. I probably should have taken the sofa then. Didn’t really think how small it would be for you…”

He shakes his head. “I’d never turf you out of your own bed. Even if you offered. I’m grateful for anything; would have been for the floor.

“You probably would have had less room on the floor than on the couch.” I say with a grin, waving a hand at my tiny, cramped living room that really only has space for the sofa, a TV, and one overstuffed book and knick-knack shelf. 

“So are you okay?” His eyes rake me from disheveled bedhead to stubbed, throbbing toe. Not in a sexual way, but in a concerned way.

“I’m fine. Tripped and stubbed my toe getting up.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

His face darkens slightly as he too remembers the “worse" I’ve had. He knew better than anyone aside from me and my mother how much worse it could get.

He sets the coffee aside and takes a slow step towards me, eyes careful, measuring my reaction, if I’ll back off or run away. 

I don’t, obviously. Instead I take a step of my own towards him. “Did you sleep okay? You know, aside from the falling off the sofa bit.” Changing the subject. It’s a cheap shot, sure, but I can’t start thinking about my old life now, not when I’ve only just started to put it behind me. And I can tell the memories, however repressed, are hurting him too.

“I did. Thank you.” He’s being careful, his shoulders are tight, back stiffened. I don’t like this oddly formal tone we’re using right now but part of me understands it. We’re in this strange no man’s land, or whatever you want to call it, where we know each other, but also we don’t. Plus I think he’s still expecting me to run scared from him.

“You weren’t cold or anything?”

“No.”

The short, clipped, one word answer, even though it’s delivered in gentler tones than what I was used to before, is still so familiar that it makes me smile. His own lips curve, mirroring mine, apparently instinctively. “What?”

“Nothing. Is that coffee I see? And smell?”

“It is.” He picks the carafe up again. “Would you like some?”

“Yes please. How’d you figure out how to work the machine? Didn’t they only have, like, grinders in your time?”

He gives me a lopsided grin as he pours me a cup of steaming goodness. “It took some time. This machine is quite different from what I knew.”

I nod sagely, taking a sip of my coffee black. “No crank!”

“Truly a miracle of modern technology.” He says dryly. 

I laugh. “You want some milk with that?”

“No, thanks.”

Only then do I see that he appears to have emptied half the contents of my fridge onto my counter, including that milk he just politely refused, and a sauce pan that’s already on the stove and spitting melted butter around my kitchen. “What’s this?"

“Oh,” color infuses his cheeks. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of him emotionally reacting, especially blushing. You’d think that such a coloss of a man wouldn’t blush, but when he does it seems quite natural, especially with this personality that I’m slowly watching emerge. 

“I wanted to make you an omelette.”

“An omelette?”

He shrugs, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “You were always bringing me food. I wanted to return the favor for once.”

I’m left blinking rapidly, trying to digest the absolute sweetness and thoughtfulness of this gesture.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have rifled through your stuff. But I—” he’s interrupted by a loud crunching noise. I jump, taking a few seconds to realize that he’s now holding a broken coffee mug in his hands and that coffee is spilling over his fingers and dripping onto the floor. Evidently he got so worked up and anxious over my reaction that he wound up squeezing the mug too tightly. Large, blue eyes look at me sheepishly. “Sorry…”

I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. After a few seconds he joins me, the sound of his laughter warm and deep and slow, washing over me like a wave, filling me up with an inner glow, kind of like when you drink hot cider on a cold day. I want to keep hearing this sound forever.

When we eventually calm down I look at him, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “Thank you. For the coffee. And the thought of the omelette. It’s great!”

He smiles back. “You’re welcome. But now that you’re awake you can help me. Modern technology is so confusing!” he says in a woeful voice, that tells me he’s bullshitting. He knows exactly how to work my stove.

“Let’s clean this mess up first.” I point to the broken shards of mug and coffee splatters on the floor. 

“Let me do it. No chance of getting cut.” He wiggles his metal fingers.

“OK. I’ll take over omelette duty.” I say turning to the pan on the stove, and tossing him a rag to wipe up the spill with.

He joins me moments later, leaning over my back at the counter where I’m whisking eggs and milk together. “Add some butter into that.” He instructs, handing me the packet.

I do. 

“And some garlic.” 

Again I do, but I throw a mock suspicious glance at him over my shoulder. “Where did you learn all this?”

“I used to cook a lot. For my best friend.”

“Steve?”

It’s his turn to give me an odd look. Only then do I realize how strange, maybe almost stalkerish that must seem, that I now know so many obscure facts about him, from all of my research forays. Well, ya know what; tit for tat on the stalker vibes. He used to follow me around all day. I’m entitled to some questionable behavior of my own now! In fact, it may even be long overdue!

“I read about him.”

“Ah. It’s very strange reading about yourself and your best friend since childhood in a book that’s seemingly found in any library. Especially if you don’t even know that the book exists.”

“Hm. I can imagine. Paprika?” I ask of the small bottle he hands me.

“Trust me.”

“Ok. How much?”

“A dash.”

I roll my eyes. “How informative. Like that?”

“Bit more.”

“Are we making omelettes, or a spice bar?” I question in mock exasperation when he hands me bottles of onion salt and turmeric next.

He grins but says nothing. I sigh and roll my eyes. “Another dash?”

“Half dash. Of each.”

I make a face at him. “What the hell even is a half dash?"

“Why don’t you just let me do it?!”

“Gladly.” I toss the two bottles to him in a high arc, knowing he’ll catch them and wanting to see more of his crazy fast reflexes. “Don’t burn down my apartment.”

“I make no promises. After all I’ve never seen these modern what-do-you-call-'ems that you have before.”

“Yeah right. I’ve got whositz and whatzits galore.” I sing absently. “You want thingamabobs? I got twenty!”

He looks at me over his own shoulder, still busy mixing spices into the eggs with a fork. No, a dinglehopper!

I grin brightly at him.

“I’m not even going to ask.” He turns back to his work, shaking his head slightly.

I lean my chin on my hands and just watch him. He moves with ease and confidence around my kitchen, clearly knowing what he’s doing despite the fact that he probably hasn’t done it in 70 years or more. I doubt HYDRA had him cook for them. Why let master mercenaries have hobbies?! 

There’s something about seeing him like this… so at home in a kitchen, wearing casual clothes, and even humming an unknown tune under his breath… something oddly reassuring. Not that I needed to be reassured that he was a good person. I’ve known that for a long time now, even when that good person was operating under the goggles, mask, and guise of a HYDRA bad person. He’s so… _different._ But still so much the same. It’s crazy, how I can tell there are differences but I don’t know what they are until I really look closer.

Like the way he moves for example. He’s always been amazingly graceful and lithe for a man of his size and breadth. He moved like a stalking panther, and was completely at ease with his body. And he still is. But at the same time there’s no more of that coiled tension, that always-ready-to-attack mode that he had before. I know his reflexes are still the same; if I were to, for example, throw one of the apples from the fruit bowl next to me at his head right now while he was busy folding chopped spinach into the eggs, I would not hit him. He would spin around and catch that apple with ease. I’m sure of it. But I don’t think he’d projectile launch it back at me face or pounce on me because he felt I was a threat. Which he would have done before. So in a way he seems more in control of his instincts now, or at least like he’s allowed to assess them for himself.

There’s also his voice and personality. That’s the most different. His voice is still rough, quiet at the same time. But it’s a lot softer, gentler. Kinder. It’s also a bit slower, like he’s thinking about what he’s saying before and while he’s saying it. His personality is the most different, although that should be obvious. He’s a lot more goofy than I would have expected. I’d never imagined the Winter Soldier to be one to tease me. He joked with me once or twice but it was rare, and seemed sort of awkward and stunted on his side, like he didn’t really know what he was doing. He’s a lot more considerate too. I think maybe that’s one of the main things that was taken from him by whatever brainwashing techniques HYDRA used on him: his conscience. 

And then of course there’s the way he looks. So similar, but so different. I’d never really thought much about how much threat and danger his dark clothing gave him before. I guess clothes do make the man. Or the ninja night warrior. And the hair, the face, the eyes, even the metal arm. Different. But the same. But different. And better!

And maybe what’s been reassured inside me isn’t my heart; that’s always known and trusted him. Maybe it’s the logic parts of my brain. Maybe it’s Good Kate and Bad Kate who are finally coming around to Just Kate’s side. Maybe seeing him like this is finally convincing their dumb asses that I was right all along. Ha! Catty bitches!

I’m brought out of my musing reverie by him sliding a plate under my nose. The smell curls up toward me making my stomach growl. He smiles self satisfied when he hears it.

“Thank you!” I pick up my fork.

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t even tried it.”

I do, slicing off a corner and… “Oh my God. This is delicious!”

He smiles again proudly, sitting down next to me with his own plate. 

“The spices… the garlic. Wow. Amazing!”

“Told you.”

“You sure the hell did! Can I hire you to cook me breakfast every morning?!”

He laughs. “I’m sure we can work something out in exchange for your tiny couch.”

I mull that over, while I keep on stuffing my face with this amazingness. That sounded like he’s planning to stick around. Without me having to hogtie him! But I guess I’ll obsess about that later. For now there’s another issue that I’ve been meaning to address.

“Can I ask you something?”

He puts down his fork, turning his full attention to me, a move that almost blows me away. For a second, or thirty, I lose my train of thought simply because I’m too caught up with staring at his face. A sight that even before he vanished off the face of the earth I only rarely got to see in full. And never this open!

“What do you know about SHIELD?”

The question seems to surprise him because he jerks, knocking his fork to the ground. We both instinctively dive for it, a move that has us almost cracking heads under the table. Almost, only because his insane reflexes kick in and have him simultaneously pulling back a split second before impact, and also catching my shoulder and holding me back. His hand is high on my shoulder, almost half on my neck, and we’re pretty much nose to nose. 

“Hi.” I say, just a bit breathless at the proximity, and the contact of his hand on me; on my bare skin.

I watch a pink flush spread slowly over his cheeks, under the brown dusting of stubble. “Hi.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

He swallows tightly. “Don’t mention it.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

“I’m gonna sit up now.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

Even after that strangely endearing but awkward exchange I really don’t want to pull away, but I do, because I sense that he really has no idea what to do here. I sit back up in my chair and a second later he joins me, fork in hand. He swipes a hand through his messy hair, the blush receding bit by bit.

“Why did you ask about SHIELD?”

Right Back to the topic at hand. “Well, I found out about the SSR in my research on you. And then I eventually discovered that they’d turned into SHIELD. And you told me about them too."

“I did?”

“Not directly. You scratched the letters into the dirt on our rooftop that one time we talked about running away, and you said you couldn’t because HYDRA would come after you. I asked if there was nothing we could do, and you said there wasn’t. But after you left I found that you’d written that. And I figured that maybe it was a secret or subconscious message from you, like maybe SHIELD could be something we could do, or someone who could help us…”

“I don’t remember doing that… I remember the conversation. But not leaving you a message."

Huh. Strange. Very strange.

“Why did you ask though? Did SHIELD contact you?”

“Hah. I wish. No. I tried to contact _them._ But getting in touch with the president would have been easier.”

“Why did you want to get in touch with them?”

“I thought they might be able to help. You know… you. When you disappeared and I had no idea why or where to. I thought maybe they’d be able to find you. Make sure you were alright. And even if you had left because you wanted nothing more to do with me… you know, that would have been alright, but I did know that you were being hurt by HYDRA. I mean you admitted that much to me multiple times. But I thought they could help you even if you didn’t want to see me anymore, at least maybe you could be free.”

“But you didn’t find anything?”

I shake my head. “The closest I could find was a SHIELD Landscaping Co. and Greenshield Insurance.”

“As has been my experience, you don’t find SHIELD, SHIELD finds you.”

“Well I put out plenty of distress signals. Seems like they only find you when it’s convenient to them.”

He sighs leaning back in his chair. “Sounds about right. But if your distress signals had to do with me, or the Winter Soldier then they probably ignored them. See, they don’t believe he exists. And they think I’m dead.”

“Well, I for one know you’re not dead. And I’m glad you exist.” I say reaching out one hand across the table. He smiles slightly, although it’s a sad smile that tugs up the corners of his mouth, but tugs down the corners of his eyes. He contort himself across the table so he can take my hand with his flesh one, not the metal one, although I wouldn’t have minded either.

“When was the last time you tried to contact them?”

“Last month.”

He looks past me out the window, apparently chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Bucky?”

Again, my utterance of his name makes him smile. “Yes?”

“Do you want to contact them? You’d probably have more success than me…”

“Not sure if they’d want to speak to me. I mean I just destroyed their main headquarters less than half a year ago.”

“Hang on. Are you talking about that thing that happened at the Triskelion? I saw that on the news. That was you? That was where what went down with Steve… went down?”

He nods ruefully.

“Is that where SHIELD is? Or… was?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the Triskelion was a government building?”

“SHIELD is government. An obscure, largely secret branch. But they are part of it.”

“Jeezus H. F. Christ on a fucking cracker! I walked by that building at least once a week and I never knew… goddamn it! Couldn’t they just like… label this shit!”

I get derailed in my ranting tirade by Bucky, who is watching my tantrum, lips pressed together, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. The sight of that expression is enough to calm me down, mostly because I’ve never seen it and never imagined that I ever would.

His chuckles taper off into a serious expression once more. “Would you like me to go to SHIELD?”

“Me?” I’m actually taken aback. “It’s not really up to me, is it?! It’s your choice.”

“But if you could decide for me. Would you want me to?”

I lick my lips slowly. “I don’t know… to keep you safe, yes. They could probably fix you up with a safe-house or whatever, somewhere where you wouldn’t have to be on the run and sleep on friggin’ park benches. And maybe you could see your best friend again too… But how would they react to your past? You know, what HYDRA made you do? I don’t want you going there and then having them blame you and, like, try to arrest you or something.”

He looks away from me out the window again, his eyes becoming flat; more like they used to be, how I remember them. “Maybe they should arrest me.”

“No!” I’m desperate to get this look out of his eyes again; this dead, unfeeling, distant, and cold look. “No, they shouldn’t. You didn’t do anything. Hey. Look at me.”

He doesn’t. But his eyes slide closed and his head drops. “I knew you’d try to convince me that I’m not the one to blame.”

“Because you’re not!”

He doesn’t respond; doesn’t even react, and so in a desperate bid at recapturing his attention I slide out of my chair and fall onto my knees next to his, searching out his gaze. 

His eyes had opened when I practically fell out of my chair and they find mine, surprise glistening in their sapphire depths at the position he’s so suddenly found me in.

I reach for his hand, the metal one because it’s closest to me and I don’t mind it; am not afraid of it. He jerks, instinctively I think, but doesn’t withdraw it. Nor does he push me away or stand up to put distance between us. A good thing, I think. “It wasn’t you!” I say earnestly looking up at him, at his face which is so familiar, but so different at the same time.

“Wasn’t it?” his voice is heavy with sadness, self loathing, and fear I think.

“No.”

He gently extricates his metal hand from my clutching ones. My heart sinks. Then it lurches up into my throat, pounding wildly, because those same metal fingers are suddenly wrapped around my neck. Not hard. There’s no pressure; no squeeze, and they’re only there for like two seconds before they fall away, but it’s enough to make my mind flash back to that night when I first met him.

He sees that, and I realize it’s what he wanted to remind me off. The terror I felt that night. “That wasn’t me?” he asks, the self hatred now prevalent in his voice and eyes. His metal fingers are now clenched into a fist around his fork on the table.

I swallow hard, the knotted lump of my fear hardened heart loosening and slipping back down to where it anatomically belongs. “No.”

He looks at me sharply and I set my jaw to let him see my resolve and my utter belief in that statement. 

He shakes his head, gives a snort of disgust. Not at me, I’m pretty sure. At himself. “How can you look at this face and not see what you saw that night?!”

“Well first of all your face was completely covered.” I quip brattily. 

He gives me a look but I can see and sense him calming down. The tension gradually leaves his shoulders, though I’m not sure I like their new defeated slump any better. His fingers unclench from around the fork, leaving its stainless steel handle twisted and warped out of shape. For a second my mind snags on the fact that those same fingers were just seconds before around my throat, and, while I trust him implicitly, it would be all too easy for him to reduce my spine to that same state of warped twistedness. Or just snap it clean through. With a single blow. From his pointer finger probably.

“And second, yes. You are different. I can see it, I can hear it, I can feel it. Hell, I can even _smell_ it!”

He looks at me askance. “Smell it?”

I shrug, pawing for his hand again. After a brief hesitation he gives it back to me. “Back then you smelled like gun powder. Gasoline and leather. Metal.” I play absently with his metal fingers, watching the overhead light glint off them.

“Now you smell… I don’t really know. Not like that though. You kinda smell like rain on hot pavement. Like the outdoors. A bit cinnamon-y. You don’t smell dangerous anymore. Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it?!”

“A little bit.” He takes a deep breath. “But I know what you mean. You also used to smell different. I don’t know how to describe it either, but I get it. And you’re different too. You used to be sad and afraid. Now you’re not.”

“I’m not. Not afraid of you anyway.”

He just looks down at me, then slowly lifts his non metal hand and uses it to tuck a strand of messy hair behind my ear.

“Do you believe me?” I ask. “That you’re not the same.”

“I believe that you believe it.”

I sigh. It’s a start at least.

I move back to my chair, but don’t let go of his hand. We finish our breakfast in companionable silence, me eating left handed to avoid relinquishing his hand.

We clean up the same way too, me washing, him drying. It feels strangely domestic and calm. But beneath that calm is a storm brewing, at least in my mind. Because I know that at some point soon I’m gonna have to let him go again. He’s not moving in, for chrissakes. Who says he even still wants to be here? He’s got shit to do probably. I mean he’s on the run too, technically, isn’t he? I can’t expect him to keep hanging around my apartment or to even stick around the city.

“So what now?” I ask quietly when the last plate is dried and put away.

“What do you mean?”

I wrap my arms tight around my middle. “Are you… are you planning to stay, or…?”

“Oh.” He looks stricken for a second. “Right. I’m sorry. You probably have things to do. And I shouldn’t be encroaching on your hospitality any more than I already did. I—”

“No!” I borderline yell, then repeat quieter and somewhat calmer. “No, that’s not what I meant. You can encroach on my hospitality as much as you want and whenever you like. I just mean, are you okay to be here? Like, do you feel comfortable? Is it safe?”

He looks pained. “It is safe. I eluded HYDRA a while ago. They’re looking for me in Romania right now. They won’t show up on your doorstep. It’s safe for you to have me here.”

“I don’t care about me. Are you safe?”

“ ** _I_** care about you. And yes. We both are.”

“Good. Then you’re welcome to stay here as long as you can stand my company.”

He gifts me a small smile. “I don’t think I’d ever grow tired of that. But you might of mine.”

“Nah!”

“In that case I would be very grateful to stay.”

“Great! I do have some things to do today though…” I trail off, sure that as soon as I leave he’ll vanish.

“Me too.”

Oh. I wonder what his errands consist of? Intrigue and espionage?!

“Then… I guess we should both… do those things… and meet back here… later?”

“I guess.” He actually sounds as unsure as me, though why he would I can’t quite fathom. It wasn’t me who disappeared on him last time.

“I don’t have a spare key…” I say, vaguely aware of how absurd it is that I’d be offering him a key like we’re suddenly roomies now or something. Although… aren’t we? Isn’t that basically what we just agreed on? Sort of? On a tentative temporary basis?

He scratches the back of his neck in an almost embarrassed way. “I don’t really need a key.”

Oh. Yeah. That makes me crack a smile. “Right. Forgot. Mr. Super Spy Ninja Man.”

He smiles back almost guiltily. “So I’ll see you later then.”

I bite my lip. I don’t want him to go. What if he doesn’t come back? “You will?” my voice is tiny. Practically pathetic. 

"You’re worried I’ll disappear again?”

I nod almost shyly.

“I won’t. Not this time.”

"How can you be sure? You pinky promised me last time that you wouldn’t. Not without telling me first.”

He’s silent for so long that I chance a peek up at him through my lashes.

“Come here.” He waves me closer, letting me approach him on my terms I think, instead of crowding closer to me himself. Still worried that I’ll be scared…

I’m still not and so I tiptoe closer until I’m right in front of him, staring at his chest, hating myself for being so stupid and needy and pathetic. One finger tips my quivering chin up to meet his eyes. “You say that the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes are two different people, right?”

I nod.

“Then think of it this way: it was the Winter Soldier who left you last time. Not Bucky Barnes. And even he didn’t leave voluntarily.”

Well, when he puts it that way… “Ok...”

“Ok?”

“Ok!” this time I say it with more conviction.

“Ok.” He parrots, another laugh simmering in his voice.

I give a weak grin in response. “Can I hug you?” 

He drops his hand from my face, looking cautious. Unsure.

“I promise not to hurt you.” I joke feebly. As if I could make a dent in his solid metal and muscle physique even if I wanted to.

It works though. He cracks a smile and opens his arms. I move into them cautiously wrapping mine up underneath his so my hands rest on his shoulder blades, while his wrap all the way around me. I’m on my tiptoes to reach, while he’s bending down slightly.

“Please don’t hurt me.” He murmurs into my hair. “I’m fragile.”

Though I can hear the smile in his voice in response to my dumb joke I think I also sense an underlying almost desperate seriousness in his words. He really is fragile. Not physically. Definitely not physically as the hard planes of pure muscles that are pressed against my body and wound around my waist are evident of. But more mentally. Emotionally. His heart is fragile, and his mind. Maybe even his hold on reality…

I hold him closer trying to infuse this strange belief I have in him into his body through the physical contact. The belief that he’s good. That he isn’t at fault for the last 70 years. That he’s not what they made him into. And that I’m not afraid of him and want to be around him. “No one’s ever gonna hurt you again!” I say, my voice muffled in the fabric of the shirt over his shoulder. “Not on my watch!”

“I believe it.” He says then pulls back carefully. 

I slide my arms from around him but keep them resting on his forearms. Instinctively, it feels like, his stay as well, cupping my elbows. “Are we okay?”

“I am if you are.”

“And you promise I’ll see you later?”

“Promise.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

"We need to stop that.”

He smirks. “Ok.”

“You’re an idiot!”

“I know.”

“Get out of here.”

He huffs another laugh, then lightly grazes his fingertips down my cheek. With that he spins around, loping over to my open living room window and swinging himself right out of it, dropping out of sight.

“I meant through the door!” I announce exasperatedly to the now empty room before hurrying after him and leaning out that same window, looking down into the street.

Empty. He’s nowhere to be seen. 

_Still a ghost then…_ I think as I touch my cheek where his fingers just were. I realize belatedly that he did it with his metal hand. The spot is cold, but it feels like it burns hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the annoying thing is that I have a million ideas for what to write about 6 chapters down the line, but none for what to write for the next chapter. Yeek. I suck a planning this stuff. I have a few loose ideas but nothing concrete. But I'll work it out. I really just want to get to all the stuff I've planned for those later chapters. Its gonna get exciting. And a whole lot of you are gonna hate me. Uh oh. Lol. Thanks for reading anyways and for sticking out that huge ass wait time I made you sit through. Y'all are rockstars.  
> Also lemme know if you want what you think. Especially about how in character Bucky is (or isn't.) You know I'm insecure about that and appreciate any reassurance or advice. VALIDATE ME. PLEEEEASE!!!  
> Ok. Enough of that. Merry Christmas eve, if you celebrate. 🎄🎄🎄  
> Also: did I manage to trick anyone for even a second with that "it was a dream thing" in the beginning. I kinda did that on purpose, but I also didn't want to be evil.   
> 🎅🏻 Ho ho ho 🎅🏻


	24. Punching Nazis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, look at that. Another chapter. I'm on a renewed roll here. Yay me!  
> Slight TRIGGER WARNINGS for the repressed memories and some Sligh violence. And angst as always. I think you should just expect that now for pretty much every chapter.  
> Enjoy.

He leaves like he always does at 8:35 sharp. Enough time for him to ride the 15 minute drive on his motorbike, and get to work with a good 10 minute cushion to park and get to his office. Usually he’s in civilian attire, but the shield is always strapped to his back.

It makes me smile a little every time I see it, that shield. There’s a good chance that no one alive remembers this but me and Steve. The shield is actually mine. He bet it in a poker game in ’43. We’d all been playing; us, the Howling Commandos, and we’d been drinking too. Steve had practically drunk up the whole bar, because the effects of the super soldier serum made it hard for him to get drunk, but drunk he was now. And because he’d already lost all of the things he bet over the night, the only thing he had left was the shield. So he tossed it into the pile. 

After I won, I let him keep using it of course. What’s Captain America without his shield in the eyes of the world? But it became a running joke for us that actually the shield belonged to me, and Steve was just indefinitely borrowing it.

Maybe that’s why he kept it? Maybe when he came out of the ice with that shield he remembered that. And when they offered him a new one, with probably enhanced protection, and laser shooting capabilities or whatever he refused it. And maybe he kept the old one because it reminded him of before. A time long past. Of his team, maybe even of his best friend. Of the time we spent fighting for our lives, others lives, for our country, and maybe even for the goodness and dignity of humanity. And the time when we weren’t fighting, when we were having fun, drinking, playing poker.

 _It was the best of times, it was the worst of times._ The quote echoes through my head as I crouch on the rooftop watching Steve on his bike shrink into the distance, the silver star on his shield; _my_ shield winking at me.

I parkour my way back down the fire stairs that run the length of Steve’s apartment building, once again fighting with myself, like I do every time I spend my morning here, for that small 20 second glimpse of him as he leaves to start his day. Should I make contact with him? I know he’s looking for me. He hasn’t even come close to finding me, but that’s because I don’t let him. I’ve kept tabs on his movements and purposely stayed one step ahead and out of sight. If I didn’t know that he was searching for me he would have already found me.

But I still don’t know if I deserve his friendship now, after everything I did; everything I did to _him._ And he does work for SHIELD… I know he would never turn me in to them, but I also don’t want to put him into a compromised position that might make him a traitor in their eyes, should he be found out to have hidden the whereabouts of a wanted fugitive from them.

But really those are all just pretty excuses. I don’t go to see him because I’m a coward. I’m afraid of how he’ll look at me, of seeing the sadness and pity in his eyes. I’m afraid of the memories, new and old. I’m afraid that if I go see him we’ll just pick up right where we left off and it will feel so familiar that I’ll forget all the sins I have to atone for. I’m afraid he’ll make me believe that I really am good. Because right now that belief that I’m a bad person who did bad things and needs to make them right is all that’s keeping me hanging on to a thread of sanity, and all that’s keeping me from breaking down, or that’s what it feels like. To make myself believe that I’m good I first need to make up for all the bad. And if I don’t do that then how good could I really be?!

My brain threatens to split at the onslaught of thoughts, and guilt, memories, and internal arguments. I drop my face into my palms. I can’t keep doing this. It’s been months. I thought it would get easier, that some of the internal battle would go away or at least quiet down. But it hasn’t. It’s only gotten louder.

Except…

My face lifts into the morning sun in wonder.

Except this morning. And last night. With Kate.

Even though there was conflict, and moments when we both remembered bad times, my brain was quiet. I was able to process things much more naturally and without my thoughts sheering off in a thousand different directions, and the darkness trying to force its way in. It was calm. It was nice.

And her… that she let me back into her life so easily and completely. That she not only accepted me back but invited me into her home to spend the night... I know she locked her bedroom door on me yesterday; I heard the click of the lock engaging. But I can’t possibly blame her or think in any way badly of her for it. 

How could I?

And she’s invited me back again tonight. But how can I go back? How can I not? She’s so afraid of me disappearing again, and I am too; of her disappearing. Not that she was ever really lost to me, or that it was ever her fault, but if I leave her again, maybe even for her own good then how could I ever come back again? It wouldn’t be fair to her to only pop in when I needed her calming presence. It would be indescribably selfish. Because for some, to me unfathomable reason she needs me to. And wants me around. Not just now, even back then.

And I want to be around her too, and not just because she quiets my mind, and centers me. She makes me laugh, she’s bright, kind, caring, incredible. She lights up a room, or a rooftop. She does even more now that she’s safe and happy and healthy and free to be herself. She’s different too. Like everything she already was back then has now been amplified. Like she doesn’t force herself to quash down her personality anymore because it might make someone angry if she lets it show.

I want to go back. I want more of this morning. Of last night. I want to feel safe and warm, not just because I got to sleep inside for once, but because it was in proximity to her. I want to make her laugh and smile again. I want to tell her things, listen to her stories again. I want to rediscover her through my eyes now, not the blunt, half blind ones that HYDRA gave me.

I freeze suddenly. This was the first time that I did the very thing she’s been trying to convince me of. I looked at the Winter Soldier and myself as separate entities. I’d tried it before but I never believed it. But just now… thinking of how I knew her back then, of how my knowledge of her was stunted and tainted by what had been done to me… and wanting to get to know her all over again, without the blocks and the darkness. To allow myself to see her as she is and not have to constantly battle and force away the negativity. 

The Winter Soldier already fell for her, when he was programmed to have no emotions whatsoever. What chance does Bucky Barnes have?

Even thought the thought is vaguely scary it makes me smile. If I go back to her, then it’s my choice. I haven’t had choices in so long. Even after I came out of the mind control haze the things I did were things I felt like I _had_ to do. I didn’t choose them; not really. But this… this I want. I want to be her friend. I want to spend time with her. I want to get to know her. For real this time. As _me._

This new resolve; this decision fills me with a warmth and strength like I haven’t felt in decades, if ever. I stop, standing tall, lifting my head up, for once not twisting and contortions my body out of sight when I’m out in public and let the sun shine on my face. I’ve missed it. The sun. It’s warmth. Doing almost exclusively night time missions I only rarely got to feel it as the Winter Soldier, and never on my face because it was always covered. And on the one or two occasions I did feel it, I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. 

It really is the little things that make the difference…

Feeling oddly refreshed I turn my attention to my days “mission". _The sooner I finish, the sooner I can go back and be with Kate_. The thought lodges in my brain out of nowhere, making me smile.

I fish my notebook out of my backpack, quickly flipping to the page I scribbled early this morning, before I decided attempt to cook. I made a to do list for my day. I’ve been making a lot of lists lately. They help me organize my thoughts. Some of them are more serious, like the specific good things I remember about certain old memories, or a list of things and experiences I’m almost sure are not real, never happened, and we’re actually planted in my head by HYDRA. I also have more innocuous and light hearted lists, like books I want to read, or foods I want to eat, places I want to see.

Today’s list reminds me that I need to do reconnaissance on the Walter E. Washington Convention Center. A week a d a day from now they’re holding some sort of United Nations Summit there, with government officials from all over the world attending. From my personal experiences such big meetings always bring the HYDRA rats scurrying from out of their underground hideouts to wreak havoc. And no HYDRA rats are going to be doing any kind of scurrying anywhere anymore on my watch. Not without meeting my left fist!

I take a second to figure out the best way to get to the Convention Center then start walking, head down, baseball cap pulled deep into my face. Casual. No one would look at me twice. People who see me probably think I’m unfocused, lost in my thoughts, barely watching where I’m going. But in reality I’m aware of everything going on around me. It’s a combination of the HYDRA version of the serum they gave me, and all my enhanced training, neither of which went away when I “woke up". 

I know about the man who just passed me, doing a double take, his eyes going to the emblem on my faded cap, wondering why someone in Washington would be wearing a New York hat. I hear the woman walking behind me, on her phone, arguing in hushed tones with her mother. I know the bus that just drove past me will pass both the Convention Center and the rebuilt Triskelion building where Steve will just be parking his bike. I’m aware of the birds in the trees, the smells of the Cinnabon around the corner, the slight wind, that brings with it a promise of rain later. I’m ready at a moments notice to turn and defend myself if attacked, or to run and vanish in the non existent crowds if recognized. I still am the ghost story they tell about me. 

I spend the rest of my morning alternating street corners around the Walter E. Center, loitering with a cup of stale coffee and a newspaper I only pretend to read. In reality my eyes are everywhere, taking in the different faces, listening in to conversations, casing out the entrances and exits to the large multistory building, making sure no one recognizes me or becomes suspicious, and generally looking for signs of HYDRA and their agents.

When he appears I clock him immediately. I don’t know him, don’t think, at least I don’t immediately recognize him, and he doesn’t set any latent alarm bells that might signal another repressed memory off in my brain either. But he has the look. The shifty look of someone doing exactly what I’m doing, but being a lot less Covert and experienced at it. When he slinks off behind the building I push off the lamppost I’m casually leaning against and follow him, ditching the paper in a trash bin on the way. 

I track him easily, staying out of sight, but hearing him creeping around in front of me. When we’re both out of view and out of earshot of the busy street I pounce, exploding around the corner, throwing him against the rough brick wall and pinning him in place by the back of his neck, making sure he can’t turn around and see me. 

He bleats and squirms feebly but doesn’t stand a chance of getting out of my grip unless I let him. “What are you looking for?” I growl, keeping my voice low and deep so he has less chance of recognizing it.

“N-nothing, man. What do you want? My wallet’s in my left pocket. T-take it!”

“Not interested in your money,” but even as I say it I grope in his pocket, pulling out the wallet and flipping it open to reveal exactly what I knew would be there. The flat black metal badge in the shape of an octopus, pinned to the inside flap of brown leather. “I want to know why HYDRA has you skulking around the building in broad daylight.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s HYDRA?” He tries. He actually tries.

Rolling my eyes, I pull him off the wall and then slam him back again it before slapping his wallet down inches from where his nose is squished against the bricks. “Try again.”

He just whimpers. 

I pull him back again, and push him once more into the wall. “What are you planning here?”

“Nothing. I was just looking for a hot dog stand.”

“In the alley behind the building? Doubtful.” He’s brave, I’ll give him that. Brave but stupid. “What are they planning?”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who wants to know what HYDRA is planning.” Into the wall.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” Again.

“Do you want to help them do it?”

“Sure.” Is he actually this stupid?!

“I don’t know what they’re planning. Just that’s it’s something big during that UN meeting. Like I think they want to assassinate one of the presidents or something.”

So I was right. HYDRA is planning something during the Summit. 

“Who are you?”

“I’m someone you’ll see again if you tell anyone about this. Got it?” I growl threateningly into his ear, grinding his face harder into the wall for just a few seconds. Then I drop his wallet onto the ground beside his feet, turn, and am gone before he can gather himself and turn around. 

When he stumbles back out of the alleyway half a minute later, cheek scraped up, hair and coat disheveled, and looking around with vague hints of panic in his eyes, I’m well across the street, blending in with the foot traffic, but still keeping a watchful eye on him until he flags down a taxi and practically dives into it, out of my sight.

It was risky what I just did, I know, exposing and revealing myself like that. Even though I made sure he didn’t see my face and covered my metal arm and hand with my sleeve and a glove, and even though I had him practically peeing his pants with my threats and rough handling there’s no guarantee that he won’t run and report just this. And while I’m pretty sure that _he_ has no clue just who accosted him, someone else may very well put two and two together. But it’s a risk I need to take right now. Because there’s things I remember, things I think I remember, plans HYDRA made that had me as an integral center part, plans to destabilize world peace, plunge the various governments into chaos. And I need to know how concrete and far developed those plans were. I need to know if they’ve given up on them after losing me, their goddamn fist, or if they just reworked them. This meeting that will be held here in less than a fortnight sounds like just the thing they could have talked about, and the perfect opportunity to destabilize the peace between a lot of countries.

Of course the problem is that even back then they never directly told me any of these plans, I only overheard them. You don’t need your thug to be involved in the planning after all. He’s a fist, not a brain. I do think that they were largely convinced that as the fist I didn’t have ears either, or that if I overheard them I wouldn’t comprehend, or just wouldn’t care. They weren’t exactly wrong about that, but they probably didn’t think that I’d wake up. And now that I’m awake, I do care!

And turns out I was right. They are plotting something. Of course HYDRA is always plotting something but usually it doesn’t take such brazen shape. Especially with how they were just exposed by the events of six months ago, in which I myself had no small part.

At least now I know something; that my shaky at best brain isn’t malfunctioning completely memory wise. Something is on the horizon. Now I have to decide what to do about it. Should I go to SHIELD with the information? Will they arrest me on the spot? Believe that I’m a part of the plan and have been sent as a diversion? Would they even believe me in general? I have no evidence. Of anything. Or if I don’t go, could I handle the threat on my own? Maybe. I’ve taken out entire squadrons by myself before. If I knew more about the exact plan I’d be able to make a better judgment call. 

I sigh, looking down at my hands. I hated using violence on that guy, even if he is Nazi scum. Against my will my body was turned into a weapon for so long, physiologically as well as literally. To have me, of my own choosing, use it in that same way too… I hate it. It’s not who I want to be now. But I also don’t think I had a choice. How else could I have gotten the information I needed?

My mind inexplicably jumps to Kate. For a moment I wonder idly why it would do that, before I realize that I want her perspective on this. How would she feel about what I just did? Would she see me as a monster? A bully? A thug? Miraculously she probably wouldn’t… she didn’t even when I was literally murdering people and she witnessed it. But again, in her words, that wasn’t really me.

Was it?

The doubts encroach again, and my brain gets loud. I wonder if it’s too early to go back to her apartment; if she’ll be there yet. I don’t want to be there alone without her; feel like it’s too much of an invasion of her privacy. I’ve invaded that enough in the past. 

Well, if she’s not at home yet then she’ll be at the gallery. Maybe I could swing by again to see. And actually go up to her this time. And if she’s not there then she’ll be at home.

My heart swells with something in my chest, at the thought that either way I’ll get to see her soon.

I make my way across town, being a lot less careful and aware of my surroundings than I should be, because my brain is too occupied with thoughts of her. When I cut through the park that lies between me and the gallery my eyes fall on a large bed of wild flowers, planted to look out of control in their carefully cordoned off area. Looking around surreptitiously I gather a few until I have a small bunch in my hand. Will she like them? Should I even give them to her? Or will she think that it’s too forward? Maybe if I let her know they’re explicitly a thank you? Do I want them to mean something else? Maybe I can say they’re a congratulation for her first exhibition? Do people still do that now?

Before I can stress myself out about it any more I resume my trek towards the gallery building. Like the evenings before there is a good number of visitors in attendance, but the gallery floor isn’t overcrowded. People are sipping the complimentary champagne, and looking at her photographs which have been framed and hung up at regular intervals, with spotlights trained on them. Every bit of conversation my ears pick up is about her works, which is good because they deserve to be talked about. It would be a shame if people just glanced at her amazing pictures and went right back to talking about other things. 

I duck into the gallery keeping a low profile. Being among so many people makes me feel strangely vulnerable and nervous. I don’t really understand why. I doubt anyone would recognize me; it’s not like there’s wanted posters out for me. I doubt HYDRA would come here to a place like this, and even in the very unlikely event that all these people turned and attacked me, I know I could fight them all off. Wouldn’t want to. But I could. 

I just feel strangely… crowded. Maybe it’s because the only time I’ve spent with people in the last years I was either tasked to kill them, or they were assigned to hurt me in some way. All except Kate. Which is maybe why I feel so comfortable around her, and only her now.

When I spot her it’s as if the entire room lights up, which is ridiculous because it’s already bright with the halogens and spotlights. She’s standing off to the side, a champagne glass in her hand that she’s twirling between her fingers, watching the people moving through the space. A small, elated smile is on her lips and her eyes are shining brighter than the spotlights. She’s also piled all her hair up on top of her head somehow, instead of leaving it loose in the curly mass it usually is in. It makes her look different somehow, and I catch myself staring.

I’m knocked out of my stupor by a man bumping into me. Instinctively I turn my face away, pulling the baseball cap down further.

“’Scuse me.” He mumbles, before disappearing deeper into the gallery. My eyes follow him for a second automatically analyzing and memorizing everything it can about him. When I look back at Kate I see that she’s spotted me. Her smile has stretched, lighting up her whole face. Drawn to it, I pick my way across the room until I’m right in front of her. There I stand like an idiot, staring.

“Hi.” She says almost carefully, eyes searching my face in what could be worry.

“Hi.”

“Are you ok?”

I nod.

“You came back.”

“Did you still want me to?”

“Of course.”

I feel relief rising at her answer, even though my question was sort of a joke. “I brought you something.”

I hold the flowers out to her, thinking that, really, they’re pathetic. She probably knows exactly where they came from; she walks through the same park to get here.

But her entire face lights up with joy. “Thank you!” she almost squeals, hopping up and down slightly on the balls of her feet. “They’re beautiful. But what’s the occasion?”

“For letting me stay with you. And congratulations on your show.” I mumble, strangely awkward, but also captivated by her excitement. 

“I’ve never gotten flowers before.” She smiles at me, a smile that perfectly shows what I was thinking about earlier. How she’s different than she was before because she’s more amplified. I’ve seen this smile. But never like this. Never so completely happy. And never without bruises on her face.

The though makes me both sad and glad.

A prickle runs up my spine, and before I can analyze it my instincts have me turning away and ducking down a hallway that leads to the next room of photographs. I don’t actually head down the hallway, instead I hang back, listening to figure out what caused my reaction.

“Hey, hey, Date! Who was that? Secret admirer?”

She laughs. “Hey Mr. B. No, it was just some guy who liked my work. Speaking of, aren’t you tired of it yet? You’ve been here almost every night.”

I glance around the corner and recognize the man who just bumped into me. He’s talking to her, very informally, leaning slightly towards her, hands buried in his pockets, a wide grin on his face.

He’s familiar. I don’t know where from, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen him before, and not just earlier when I bumped shoulders with him. I duck back out of sight.

“Never get bored of your work, Katie. You know that. Anyway I was just saying goodnight. I’m headed out, but I’ll see you back here tomorrow or the day after. Then we gotta get ready for Closing Night, eh.”

“You know it. Got my ball gown picked out and everything. You’d better get your tux pressed!” she jokes in her warm voice, which makes my heart flutter oddly.

“I’ll get right on that. We should grab lunch or coffee one of these days.”

“We should. I’ll call you, ok?”

“Sure thing. See ya later, Mate.” He wraps an arm around her in a half hug which she leans into, but carefully so as not to squish her flowers or spill her champagne. She toasts him as he walks away, turning once at the door to wave. When he’s disappeared she rotates once slowly on the spot, looking for me, I think.

I rejoin her.

“Everything ok?” She asks again, her voice holding concern once more.

I nod. “I just don’t really like people right now. Present company excepted.”

She grins at that. “I figured. I hope I didn’t offend you by describing you as just some guy. With the way you disappeared I thought you wouldn’t really feel comfortable getting introduced.”

“You were right. Thanks.”

“So you weren’t offended?”

I frown down at her. Why would I have been? “No.”

For some odd reason my answer makes her smile. “Do you wanna get out of here?” she asks, leaning closer to me. The smell of her piled up hair crashes into me. Something sweet. Vanilla maybe?

“Don’t you have to stay?” I ask semi dazed. 

“Nah. I don’t even really need to be here. I just like it because I love to see people enjoying my art. And sometimes I make helpful connections for the future. But right now I’d rather spend time with you. We could get a couple of burgers and hang out on my roof. Kinda like old times. What do you say?”

Her happy enthusiasm is all I need to be convinced. “Let’s go.” On a whim I hold my hand out to her, the metal one before I can think better of it. But she puts her champagne glass down and slips her warm fingers into my cold ones without a second’s hesitation.

“Let’s go.” She echoes, with another one of those heart stopping smiles, pulling me toward the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where we kinds sorta start to break from canon. That summit thing mentioned in the story is the one that in the movies happens in Vienna. I have it happening in Washington for... reasons. Also I don't think I'm gonna have the whole issue of the sokovia accords in this story. There will be conflict between Steve and Tony (yes we're getting Tony at some point. Hooray!!!) But it won't be, like, government sponsored conflict. Whatever. I don't want to give too much away. Everything I'm saying here will be somehow explained in the story. Also in canon SHIELD just kinda goes underground after the HYDRA fiasco (coulsoooooon, for those who watch agents of shield!!!). Here I just have them rebuilding and carrying on. I'm probably gonna explain at some point that they didn't think the HYDRA infiltration was as bad as it was in the movies. (Spoiler: it is! But maybe they're just Dumbledore optimistic here.) Anyway I'm done for the day's rambling.  
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter.  
> Byeeee.  
> Obligatory: feedback welcome!  
> Thank you for reading!  
> ❤💚❤💚❤💚❤💚


	25. Survivors Surviving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS for nightmares flashbacks, vague memories of abuse and angsty angsty angst.  
> Also fluffffff.  
> Enjoy

I sit in my bed, leaning against the headboard, staring dreamily into the darkness. I’m still an insomniac, oddly. That didn’t go away with my newly found freedom. But on the whole I do sleep better now. If not longer then more restfully at least. When my mind isn’t occupied, that is. And right now it is very occupied, filled with thoughts of the evening. 

Outside my window the moon is a thin slice of cheese in the sky, and outside my door everything is quiet, indicating that Bucky is once again asleep on my sofa. 

We’d spent the rest of the evening in mostly comfortable silence, sitting on my roof, eating fresh fast food, and watching the sun set and the stars emerge.

I’d prattled on about my day in much the same way I used to do before. He’d listened like he did back then, except now he’d occasionally interjected with a question or a comment, which validated his interest in what I had to say in a way I don’t think he was able to back before. 

I’d asked him about his day too and he told me that he’d spent it mostly walking around, trying to pick up any more repressed memories that might be lurking in his brain, and keeping an ear to the ground for HYDRA's movements.

I could sense that he was leaving things out, but I didn’t push him about them. 

As it got later and later he’d let me lean against him, and eventually my head had drooped accidentally-on-purpose right down onto his shoulder. After a while he’d lightly rested his own sideways against mine.

We’d sat like that, hands also intertwined, until I started shivering in the cool night air, at which point he’d shooed me inside.

The mother hen aspect of his personality is surprising. I would have never imagined that he was such a caretaker, but I guess it makes sense when I think about what I read in one of those books; that he always took care of Steve when he was sick and before he became Captain America.

I wish he’d tell me more about his friendship with Steve, his life back then, and, well, himself. But I know that right now things are still confusing to him, probably even painful. Thinking about that past that he lost… Hopefully with time he’ll open up more. 

If I even get time… I’m still afraid that I’ll blink and he’ll be gone. Again.

I sigh, turning to punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape. I really should try to sleep. 

Just as I make a show of snuggling into my comforter a strange noise from outside makes me sit back up.

What was that?

I prick my ears, and squint my eyes into the darkness as if that’ll help me hear better. Yeah, I’m not the brightest bulb. It’s been established.

There. There it was again. 

And it’s not coming from outside outside. It’s coming from outside my bedroom door. From my living room. From… Bucky?

I throw back my blankets and sneak over to the door, opening it a crack, listening.

Silence. 

Then a low keening groan. Then another. 

It is Bucky. And he sounds like he’s in pain. 

My heart is beating out of my chest as I hurry on bare feet into the living room. Sparse moonlight spills in through the window, barely enough to light up the scene, but my eyes are well adjusted after hours of sitting in the dark ruminating, and so I can clearly make him out.

He’s lying on his back, on the sofa, muscles rigid and locked. The blanket is tangled around him, his fists clenched in the fabric. His head tosses side to side, those pain and panic filled moans still spilling from his lips.

“No, no, no…” he whimpers in a tortured voice. “No. Please no. Don’t make me don’t make me don’t make me…”

My heart cracks wide open. In the pale shine of the moon I see glistening tracks on his cheeks. He’s crying.

Oh God. Oh shit! Oh God! Oh no!!!

I lurch across the room, falling down on my knees next to the sofa, hands going for his shoulders. “Bucky! Bucky, wake up!”

I shake him.

His eyes slam open with such suddenness that if my life were a movie the moment would have been accompanied by a dramatic, echoing sound effect. His hand shoots out grabbing hold of my wrist, as he simultaneously jackknifes upwards, looking around the room wildly.

I try to make my voice as soothing as possible, looking up at his panicked face from where I’m draped half across his lap, pulled there by his grip on my arm which he still hasn’t relinquished. “It’s alright. Hey, it’s ok. It’s just me. You’re ok. You’re safe. Bucky. You’re safe.”

His entire body shudders then folds over forward. He lets go of my wrist and buries his face in his hands. Immediately I scoot closer, carefully laying one arm across his shoulders, hugging him close and rubbing my hands soothingly over his back. When he doesn’t make a move to shake me off, or edge away, I lean my face against his shoulder too, whispering more calming, probably pointless things into his shirt. 

It takes a while, and at first I don’t think he’ll come out of this tonight, but then his hand gropes for mine, holding it tight, squeezing almost to the point of discomfort. It doesn’t feel like it did before though; like he has no idea how hard to squeeze to be appropriate. No, this feels desperate. Like he needs to hang on to something. To me. To reality. Hang on to reality by hanging on to me. I absolutely do not mind the tight grip in any way. I’ll give him whatever he needs right now. Hell, I’d give him both my lungs if that would help him regulate his still panic sped up breathing.

“You wanna talk about it?” I ask quietly, when I think he’s calmed enough to be able to comprehend and distinguish my words as more than mindless, calming background noise.

His head shakes back and forth like a metronome, but contrary to his body language he begins to speak in a broken, halting voice. “I was back… there… in the chair… they were… hurting me… I was alone… I could feel it…feel it all…again…”

I press my face harder into his shoulder, trying to keep my tears at bay. He doesn’t need me to turn into a blubbering mess right now, even if it’s on his behalf. He needs me to be strong.

“The pain?” I ask, trying to keep him talking, to get it out, to purge himself of the nightmare. 

“No.” he looks at me then. His eyes are wet, his lips pressed tight together to hide their trembling. “I could feel myself forgetting again. Everything I’d remembered. It was going away. They were pulling it out of my head again. And I was trying to hang on to it. Me. Steve… You…”

“Oh, Bucky…” I whisper, pressing my lips against his shoulder in an almost subconscious action, planting a little kiss. “I’m so sorry…” I do it again. 

“I don’t want to forget again.” He chokes out, a new wave of emotion wracking him.

I hug him tighter. “You won’t. I won’t let you. We’ll write it all down together and we’ll talk about everything whenever and as often as you need. I’ll be your memory when things get hazy. I’ll tell you what’s real and what isn’t. You won’t ever have to go through even one more minute not knowing who you are. I promise!”

He pulls me close then, wrapping both arms around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. It’s unexpected but welcome. Normally he’s not the one to initiate, because he’s always so careful about not hurting me or scaring me I think. But right now it looks like his need for comfort and closeness is overriding everything else. I hold him against me, combing my fingers through his hair, rocking us both just a little bit.

I can feel the neckline of my shirt slowly getting wetter and wetter as his tears soak into the fabric, and it breaks my heart over and over again. All I can do is just keep holding on to him, offering whatever comfort I can, hoping that it might be enough.

Slowly he calms. His shuddering stops, his breathing evens out, but his arms don’t relax their tight embrace around my middle so I don’t let go of him either.

“Better?” I ask softly.

He nods. I feel him take a deep breath, then he pulls back. I reach out slowly and carefully, giving him time to draw away if he’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t, so I use my fingertips to carefully push the hair that’s flopped into his face away. Some strands are wet and stuck to his skin. I’m so busy concentrating on plucking all of it away that I don’t notice how his eyes are suddenly laser focused on me.

When I pull away his hand flashes out and catches my wrist. He holds it lightly between two fingers, tilting it side to side. “I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

In answer he wraps his fingers around my wrist then lifts them, showing me that underneath his grip, my skin is discolored, the shadow of a bruise starting to bloom. Probably from when he grabbed me when he first woke up.

“Oh.”

“I’m so sorry.” He looks absolutely miserable, salty tracks still drying on his face.

“Hey. Hey, don’t worry about it. Ok? This is nothing. I’m fine.”

“I never wanted to be the one responsible for leaving a mark on you again.”

“And you didn’t. Look, you can barely see this. It’ll be gone by morning. Trust me, I know bruises.”

He still looks miserable. 

“Besides, this was my fault. I grabbed you. But you needed to wake up. Speaking of. Enough about me. Are you ok? Do you… feel any better?”

He nods slowly. “I do.”

“Do you have nightmares like that often?”

He swallows hard, meeting my eyes for a second before he looks away again. “Relatively… frequently.”

God! “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs.

“Do you… do you need anything? Can I make you some tea? Get you anything else?”

“Just… your company?” he says it so soft, so unsure, as if he really believes that I’ll just up and go and leave him like this. It breaks my heart all over again.

“You got it!” But I also know that he needs sleep. That nightmare’s robbed him of precious rest, I can see it. His face looks pale and drawn, and dark smudges ring his eyes. He needs to grab a few more hours of shut eye, but I know from experience that that’s going to be unlikely, especially after what he’s just been through. Unless…

I take his hand in mine and stand up. His eyes follow me. “Come on.” I tug lightly on his arm. 

He stands up, a confused expression on his face and follows me as I lead him down the hallway.

“Kate.” He says softly, stopping dead in the doorway to my bedroom. My momentum had continued to carry me forwards into the room and when he stopped and the length of both our arms had run out I’m unintentionally yoinked back. I trip, actually really by accident this time and crash right into his solid chest. His free hand comes up to brace and catch my shoulder.

I stay molded against him, and look up into his face. His eyes are clouded with some kind of emotion as they search mine. “I can’t take your bed.”

“You’re not taking it. We’re sharing it.”

He cuts a glance at the messy pile of pillows and blankets that cover my mattress. “I… I don’t…”

“It’s ok. Really. Look, if you don’t want to go back to sleep then that’s alright. I understand. And I’ll stay up with you if you want. But you look exhausted. I think you should try to get a few more hours. And maybe together we can keep the nightmares at bay.”

“I don’t want you to feel unsafe.”

“I won’t.”

“You locked your door…”

Damn it. He heard.

“Yesterday. Not tonight.”

“I…” he hesitates. Breaks off again.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable either. But I’m fine with this. I mean it’s just sleeping right?!”

His eyes return to mine, and suddenly there’s something else in them, a fire of some sort smoldering deep in their depths, making his normally ocean blue eyes suddenly more reminiscent of the blue center of a very hot flame, rather than water or ice. “Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Ok.” He smiles crookedly at that one little word that seems to be fast becoming our catchphrase.

“Come on.” I resume my tugging toward the bed.

He lets me scramble in first then slides in beside me, keeping the maximum distance of space and bare mattress between us that my queen sized bedframe allows. I feign a stretch and yawn, scooting closer, trying to be subtle about it, until my shoulder touches his.

His head turns slowly towards me. “I know what you’re doing.”

Damn. Subtlety failed. “What do you mean?” I ask innocently. 

He just stares at me reproachfully.

I sigh quietly. “Do you want me to stop?”

His turn to sigh, though his is a lot deeper. “No. It’s nice.”

I curl on my side then, scooting even closer, carefully laying my head down on his upper chest. His breathing is even and deep. I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear. Steady, and maybe just a little bit faster than normal. But I could be imagining that…

He carefully positions his arm so he can wrap it lightly around me. “You know you’re the only one in over 70 years who’s ever touched me with kindness?” he asks, his voice quiet and filled with a deep, soul reaching sorrow.

I swallow. I’d honestly assumed as much, but it's still heartbreaking to hear it confirmed. “Do you like it? Being touched like that I mean? I can stop if it triggers you or makes you sad.”

“No.” he turns his head until he can bury his nose in my hair. “Please don’t stop.”

I nestle closer still. “I won’t. But you gotta tell me if it ever gets too much. I don’t ever wanna cause you any distress or anything.”

“You’ve never. You ground me. You always have. Even back then. And now. I’ve never got over a nightmare that fast.”

“You ground me too, you know? And you were also pretty much the only person who’s touched me with kindness since I was 6. Which was only 14 years, not 70. But still. It meant a lot back then. Still does now!”

“Really?” the disbelief in his voice is a heartbreak all on its own.

“Uh-huh.”

“I ground you?”

“Yea.”

He seems to mull this over for a minute or so, before he softly asks, “how?”

“I quit drinking because of you. And smoking. You inspired me to get my life together. You gave me something to look forward to in a time when all the bullshit of the past 13 years got to be too much and I was ready to give up. Quit school, run away, live on the streets. Probably either drink myself to death or wind up addicted to hard drugs and die of an overdose eventually. Become a hooker to keep buying drugs and booze. I was this close before I met you. I just couldn’t see any hope at all for my future. But then suddenly I could. And I know that somehow it was because of you.”

“I don’t understand how though…” he muses to the ceiling fan. “It’s not like I was particularly motivational, or even nice to you.”

I tilt my head until I can look up into his face. It’s half in shadow, my curtains blocking out some of the moonlight. “You didn’t hit me. You didn’t yell at me. You didn’t force me to do shit I didn’t want to do. And you listened to me. You came back to see me. You _chose_ to come back to see me. You wanted to spend time with me. I know you might not have quite understood how and why you wanted to back then, but even so you still came back. You have no idea how much that means to me even now. No one had ever wanted to spend time with just me before then. At least not since I was a literal toddler.”

“How could anyone not want to spend time with you?”

He says it almost to himself, but it still makes me smile. 

We settle into silence for a while. “Still awake?” I ask, after a while.

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t have to answer…” suddenly I’m unsure about this. Is it to soon to ask, right after his nightmare…

“Just ask.”

“What’s it like? The mind control? What did it feel like? Did you know?”

He takes a deep breath that moves me, where I’m resting on his chest. “It’s… empty. Emotionless. Every day is the same, even though they’re all different. But it doesn’t feel empty because you don’t realize that you miss your old life. Because you don’t remember it. Sometimes you think you should be missin’ something but you can’t. So you don’t.”

He shifts his position slightly, but keeps his arm around me, keeping me anchored to him. “Here’s the thing though that nobody really understands. The part no one talks about. You’re still in there. Some small piece of you is awake and watchin’. It’s like being a passenger in your own body. But you don’t recognize that part. And you realize quickly that whenever you let that part become too prevalent, they’ll hurt you for it. Because _they_ know that that part is the real you, even if you don’t. And they’ll hurt you so you associate that part with pain and you’ll push it down. And eventually forget about it. Or that’s what they hope will happen. But you don’t ever forget it. You just avoid it. And now there’s a part of you that’s always screamin’ and beatin’ at the walls in your brain. And you ignore it and you learn to live with the constant screaming and the pain. And sometimes you have these moments of clarity when you can’t keep that part of you down. And you struggle to come out of it, but it’s hard because you don’t even know what you’re tryin’ to come out _of._ And so you lose. You’re destined to lose that fight over and over. And if they notice, they’ll hurt you for it again. But those moments make what you’re forced to do so much worse.”

I don’t really know what to say to that. It’s the most he’s ever spoken to me in one go. And he’s just bared so much of his soul, his pain to me… I can’t find the words to express what’s on my mind. I feel so sorry for him. I want to cry forever for all the things he’s been made to suffer, for how terrifying this must have felt for him for _70 years_. I’m so angry on his behalf. I want to blow HYDRA up with my bare hands. And I want to tell him how strong he is. To have survived that. But I don’t think words exist yet to adequately express how much I admire him, and how much I hurt for him..

“Thank you for telling me…” I say instead, maybe somewhat lamely.

“I didn’t think it would help… talkin’ about it. But it does. And maybe it’s even put things into perspective for me too.”

“It has?”

He shrugs, jostling me lightly. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“Understandable. I didn’t like to either. But you’re right. Talking helps.” I think of Priya and how much she’s helped me. I always try to give her the credit but she says that all she really does is listen and ask questions. All the hard work is me. I personally think listening to me is hard work enough, but she just laughs it off. Maybe I should try to get him in to see Priya… 

“Do you ever have nightmares? About your mother?”

I still. “Sometimes.” I say slowly. “Probably not as often as you’d think. My being traumatized usually manifests in other ways, not in unconscious night visions. I tend to react strongly to people yelling. At me or just around me. Or to sudden movements in my general direction. There’s a lot of flinching, thinking I’m gonna get hit. Or I feel like crying when anyone yells because I feel like it’s my fault. I don’t know… I often feel kind of like… raw. Like extra sensitive. Like I have one layer of skin less than everybody else, so everything affect me more. Does that make sense?”

“I think so. It’s like a bruise, but one inside that no one can see.”

“Exactly!”

“You don’t react that way around me…?” he says, although the apparent statement sounds more like a question. 

I mull that over for a second. He’s right. I don’t. Earlier when he grabbed me after waking up… if that were anyone else it would have sent me into fits of panic. But I didn’t even think twice about it. Because it was him. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

“Do you?” his voice gives a vulnerable wobble. 

“Yes!” I say firmly, pushing myself up slightly on his chest so I can look at him better. “I do know that. I’m absolutely sure of it!”

“I don’t ever want to.”

I lie back down, somehow, inexplicably, even closer than before.

“I know.”

More silence descends. “Bucky?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Mhm…”

“This… right now… you here… how… I mean, how long is this going to last?” I manage to stutter out.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No! No, just the opposite actually. I never want you to go. But… I… I don’t… I guess trust this… I just feel like every time I say goodbye to you will be the last time again. And that’s not your fault. I just feel like it. And maybe that’s because everything is kind of unsure. Like I have no issue at all whatsoever with you moving in here. But I don’t know if that’s weird, or wrong. Is it too fast, too much, too soon, or do you even want that? And we’re tiptoeing around each other so much in other ways. Like we’re lying here, like this, and I don’t… I don’t know what it means. What do _we_ mean? What even are we?”

“Survivors.” He says almost immediately.

That was pretty much the last answer I’d expected. But I actually kind of like it.

“Survivors figuring out how to survive. Together.”

I like the emphasis he put on together.

“As for me being here… I’ll stay as long as you still want me here. I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You won’t. You _don’t._ And you never have.”

“Good. But Kate…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a lot of things I forgot. A lot of things I haven’t been allowed to feel in a long time. And now that those feelings are comin’ back I’m having a hard time regulating them. It’s like you said, is it too fast, too much, too soon? I need time to figure myself out again before I ever even start to think about placin’ any of that on you.” 

“Ok. Ok, I understand that. You want to take it slow. That’s ok. Do you want me to back off a little bit?”

“Right now? No.” he bounces his shoulder a bit, jiggling me. When I look up I see a flash of white, a grin in the darkness. 

I huff a little laugh. “But other times?”

“No. I don’t want that either. Because even if I can’t really give it back yet, I like seein' how you feel. It helps me figure it out in myself. And it’s reassuring for me because otherwise I’ll start thinkin’ that I must be imagining things. That my mind's playin’ tricks on me again. So no, please don’t stop on my account.”

“Ok, but you have to tell me if you need me to slow down or anything. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable either.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

I laugh, slapping his chest lightly. “Stop it.”

His own chuckle warms me inside and out as I’d rumbles in my ear. “We should go to sleep.”

“I really wanna say it but I won’t because it’ll just start another echo effect.” I remark dryly, hoping I can get another laugh out of him.

“ _Ok!_ ” he says exaggeratedly through soft laughter. It worked!

“Nope. Nu-uh. Not gonna say it.”

“Come oooon. You have to.”

“Noooo!”

“Say it!”

I sigh dramatically. “Oooh kaaayyyyy!”

He snorts. 

“Goodnight!” I announce pointedly.

“Night. And Kate. Thank you.”

I push closer still. “Anytime.” In a fit of bravery, maybe even craziness I stretch up to plant a kiss on the underside of his chin, feeling a light dusting of stubble abrade my lips in a way that feels entirely too erotic. I mean, it’s facial hair, for goodness sake! 

“That ok?” I ask, voice slightly hoarse.

I feel his own lips in my hair, moving softly, repeating my own answer back to me, “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaaaa. It's like 2 in the morning here. I don't know what to write. Which is different cause normally I tend to ramble when I'm tired. Oh look there I go...  
> Stop! I need to sleep.  
> I shall leave you with this thought: bucky is harrrrrrd to write!!!! I love it though.  
> Anyways. Obligatory FeEdBaCk Is ApPrEcIaTeD! Blah. (It is though!)  
> Thank you for reading.  
> Love you most with butter and toast! 🧇  
> (I just realized that that's a waffle. ^^^ But I have no butter and toast emoji, so you get a waffle. Waffle is more fun to say anyway. K, I'm done waffling. (See what I did there?! ;P ))


	26. Emotional Rollercoaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for angst, panic attacks, mentions of abuse, and a bit of violence. Many emotions as the chapter title suggests.  
> Also sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. I wanted to get this chapter out because I was falling behind a bit again, so I didn't have time to check through it my usual 27 million times and may have missed something.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

When I wake up it takes me a few moments to remember where I am and who I’m wrapped around. Because I am. Wrapped around Bucky. Like a vine. He’s curled up on his side, facing away from me and I’ve jet-packed myself to his back. The even motions of his body against mine tell me that he’s probably still asleep. Carefully I unpeel myself and rise up to lean on my arm so I can see his face.

He looks younger like this. Almost like a boy. His lips are parted slightly, and his hair falls into his face. It looks softer when he’s asleep; his face. The sharp, chiseled angles of his jaw and cheekbones look more rounded, and there’s none of the heavy sorrow and hurt that he carries with him everywhere in the lines of his face.

I wish he could be so at peace all the time.

I think back to late last night, or early this morning depending on how you look at it. That nightmare was devastating. And if it was devastating to me, a passive bystander, then how must it have felt to him?! Then his anecdote about what mind control feels like... I can’t even begin to imagine! How horrible it must feel to know you aren’t the person you’re being, but to not know what else you’re supposed to have been. To not remember. And to constantly be screaming and in pain inside your head because you can’t figure it out; can’t remember. Both in physical pain and emotional pain. Agony. To get punished for remembering. For feeling.

I know a little bit of what that’s like actually. My mother used to do it to me. Back when I was a wee lass, not yet affected by snark and cynicism. Right after her personality did a complete 180. Of course I’d ask her what happened? What changed? What did I do? Do you remember how it used to be, Mom? When we went apple picking together and you lifted me up into the trees? How we went to the beach and tried to find pebbles the exact color of each other’s eyes? How we used to spend afternoons coloring entire coloring books together? How you never got mad at me for drawing right into my storybooks, or even on the living room walls sometimes, but now you get mad at me for walking or breathing too loudly?

Whenever I asked a question like that I’d get slapped and yelled at. If I cried I’d get slapped and yelled at some more. If she saw me smiling for whatever reason, maybe because I saw someone walking a cute dog outside: slapped and yelled at. One time I got mad at her back and shouted at her why she had to hit me when I didn’t even do anything bad... yup, you guessed it, slapped and yelled at. So hard that two of my baby teeth got knocked out.

So in a way I do understand what it was like for him to get punished for remembering and for feeling. But at least I still had the memories to hang on to in the first place. And I still knew emotions. I didn’t have just the ghosts of them, vague shadows of what should be memories, but that were always just out of reach. I had them. And I could look back at them when things got too bad. And cry about the loss. At least I remembered how to cry…

And I’m glad he was being honest with me about, well… us. I mean if truth be told I don’t really even know what I feel. I just know I want to be around him, close to him, and that I trust him. Is that love, or infatuation? Do I care?

I sigh, a bit too loud, and quickly press my hand to my mouth, hoping that I didn’t wake him up.

His eyes open. Crap. “Sorry.”

He turns to lie on his back, a move that automatically puts him right next to me, where I’m now kneeling up. His arm slips around my waist so naturally that I almost want to pinch myself, sure suddenly that I’m still dreaming.

“What for?”

“Waking you up.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, making dimples pop up in his cheeks. How have I never noticed those before?

“What makes you think I was still sleepin'?”

I frown. “You were pretending?”

He nods, an impish twinkle in his eyes.

“For how long?”

“I closed my eyes when I heard you sittin’ up.”

“So you just let me… ogle you?”

“Yep.”

I make a face at him.

He laughs. Unconsciously I think, (don’t really know how much anything he does is ever truly unconscious) his fingers lightly knead into my hip where his arm is still loosely wrapped around me.

I just sit, watching him a small smile on my own lips. It really is amazing that he can laugh so carefreely after the shit he’s been through. And so quickly too. It’s only been six months after all. And 70 years of imprisonment, mind control, and emotion suppression before that. He really is amazing.

I want to kiss him!

The thought intrudes out of nowhere, and I still when it falls into place.

 _Skank!_ Good Kate immediately chastises shrilly.

Bad Kate emerges from her hole, calls her a prude, and whacks her with a broom.

And me, I wrestle with myself, telling myself that this is not taking it slow! No matter how much I want to lean in right now, feel his lips against mine, his hands on me more intimately, his breath on my face, that stubble gently scratching my cheeks and… other places…, I can’t. Or shouldn’t. I don’t know if he’s ready. He asked me to take it slow and I don’t want to overwhelm him. Life must be overwhelming enough for him as it is!

And I mean it’s not even as if I’d really know what I’m doing. My entire romantic/sexual/intimate knowledge consists entirely of a few crappy movies, one or two shitty books, and 4 years of high school and watching couples necking in the hallways. Not a very comprehensive, or even realistic education. Between the stereotypical, predictable, male gaze oriented movies, and the bodice rippers that all follow the strapping-lad-saves-damsel-in-distress storyline the only thing that would make me kissing him right now in any way realistic would be if one of my high school teachers were to burst out of my closet and give us detention for PDA.

A cold touch on my face makes me freeze. It’s his thumb, skimming down my cheek. “You ok?” he asks, slowly removing his hand now that he’s recaptured my attention.

Without thinking too much about possible consequences of moving too fast around him and his killer reflexes, my own hand flashes out, captures his, and brings it back to my face. His eyes are intense on mine, but when I remove my hand, thinking that maybe he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t drop it.

“Can I take you somewhere today?”

“Where?” surprise colors my voice. Where would he want to take me?

He doesn’t answer. “You have a car, right?”

I nod. I do. I have a little Nissan Sentra that’s most likely a relic from the early 20th century. I call it Eggy because when I first got it Mr. B said he had an electronic eggbeater that probably worked better. “But where would it take us?”

“Out of town.” Again the short, vague half answers are so familiar that I can’t help but smile, and decide to drop the subject. I’ll find out soon enough.

“Do we have time for coffee first?”

“I think I’d refuse to leave without coffee.”

“I’ll make it, but only if you make me another omelette.”

“Deal!”

An hour and a half later he’s folded his large self into Eggy’s front seat and I honestly have no idea how he’s going to get himself back out of there without dismantling my poor car. It’ll be amusing at least…

We’ve been riding mostly in comfortable silence. I found a radio station that plays old songs from the forties and he seems to be vibing out. His focus is out the window, at the world passing by, but every once in a while he gives me quiet directions on where to drive. I still have no idea what destination he has in mind but so far everything points to him taking us out of not only the city, but the suburbs too.

He seems so completely lost in thought and in the outside world flying by that it surprises me when he speaks up. “Can I ask you something?”

I grin over at him. “That’s my line.”

He chuckles. “I’m stealin’ it.”

“Sure.”

“Was that a sure you can steal it, or sure you can ask me something?”

“Both.” I say, enjoying this playful banter.

“The man from last night? At the gallery? Who was he?”

“Mr. B? My high school art teacher. He’s become a friend. He helped me a lot after… everything. Why?” wWhy's he asking about Mr. B? Is he jealous or something?

“Seemed familiar…”

Not jealous. That would be ridiculous! Wouldn't it?! “Maybe you saw him those times when you followed me to school? I was always hanging out in his classroom, so that would make sense, I think.”

“Maybe…” he looks to be mulling that over, eyes on the scenery outside.

“Can I ask you somethin’ else?”

“Uh huh?”

“I don’t wanna pry but you said you gave up drinking?”

“That’s correct.”

“But last night you had champagne?”

“Kiddie champagne. Non alcoholic. It’s got all the fizz and bubbles and non of the ethanol.”

He nods slowly, eyes still trained thoughtfully out of the window.

I shift and Eggy's gears clank and grind ominously.

He frowns down at my gearshift. “You know Steve and I thought there’d be flying cars by now. We joked about it at the Stark Expo in ‘43.”

“Well my car’s not exactly the peak of today’s vehicular advances but I’m sorry that humanity has not lived up to your expectations anyway!”

“They’ve advanced in other areas.”

“But flying cars would be cool!”

“They would…” he falls back into silence.

I peer over at him. He’s being… strange. Not in a worrying me kind of way, I don’t think. But just… different. I don’t really know how to describe it. It’s something about the sudden jumping around in topics and then lapsing back into silence. It’s throwing me off. Again, not really in a negative way; just in a… confusing way. I feel untethered.

Almost shyly I offer him my hand. He looks down at it and then carefully threads his metal fingers through mine. That untethered feeling goes away a little bit.

Doesn’t matter where he’s having me take us. Not as long as I get to take him with me!

“Ok, seriously?! My car can only take so much!”

“Just a bit further.”

We continue to bump and rumble over the uneven, unpaved forest path, making me seriously fear for poor Eggy’s life. Well, if we get stranded out here then he can damn well be the one to push us back to civilization!

“Here’s fine.” He says when the dense trees surrounding us suddenly break open and we emerge, engine wheezing, onto a small clearing.

I immediately turn off my car, wondering vaguely if I’ll ever get it started again, but largely too distracted by where we are. Why would he want to take me here? He doesn’t seem the type for nature hikes.

We get out of the car, me moving off to inspect the area, Bucky turning around to rummage in my back seat, emerging with his backpack.

“Why are we here?” I ask, looking up, up, up one of the gigantic tree trunks. It seems to never end, reaching all the way up into the sky.

“Needed somewhere away from people who’d hear.”

“Hear what?” I turn around and frown in confusion when I see that he’s lined five empty assorted pop and beer cans up on a large fallen log, covered in a thick layer of moss.

“You. Practicing.”

“Practicing… what..? What is that?”

“A gun.” He says inanely, holding it quite carelessly, one finger looped through the trigger hole.

“Yes, I know that, genius. I mean what are you doing with it? Where did you get it? And why are you insinuating that I’m gonna be practicing with it?”

“I want you to learn how to protect yourself.”

“Why?”

“Yesterday I wasn’t just spying on HYDRA. I accosted one of their agents.”

“And by accosted you mean…?”

“I may have roughed him up a bit.”

I nod. Understandable. Not entirely surprising. And he’s certainly justified.

“I don’t think he recognized me. But it made me realize that I could be easily recognized. Especially since I can’t and won’t stop going against HYDRA and tracking them and their movements. I’ll never let anything happen to you. But just in case something were to happen to me…” he trails off, raising the gun.

“I thought you said they thought you’re in Romania?” I say carefully, eyeing the weapon he holds.

“They do, far as I know. But that can change. And if they figure out I’m back here they’ll come after me again. And if they were to find out about you…” when he sees my worried face he quickly adds, “which they won’t. I’ll protect you! But if there’s anything I learned about HYDRA it’s that they’re unpredictable. And just in case I want to be sure that you can protect yourself without me. And from me… if you ever need to.”

My heart breaks again at this last statement and especially at the matter-of-fact tone he’s used to deliver it. “I’m not gonna shoot you.”

He meets my eyes, voice and face grave. “You might not have a choice.”

“I’ll always have a choice. And I’ll never do it!”

He tilts his head to the side. “Would you have done it that first night? In the room with all the cubicles?”

My mind somersaults back to that night and how terrified I was after the explosion and him coming after me. How soundlessly he moved. How strong and fast he was. I remember my table-leg-turned-club and how I’d planned to bash him over the head with it. And I remember how easily he’d foiled that plan. “That’s not a fair question!”

“Would you have?”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know! Maybe. Because I was scared. But I didn’t know you back then! I didn’t know what you were like, and I didn’t care about you yet. You can’t ask me something like that and not think about those things. I can’t shoot you. And I won’t! Not as you, and not as the Winter Soldier!” I feel tears rising and choking my words off, at even the thought of that. And worse the fact that he’s thinking about this and… I don’t know, giving me _permission_ to do it. ‘Cause I think that’s what he’s doing. He’s saying that if it ever comes to that then it’s okay. But I don’t want it to be okay. And I don’t want him to think that either!

I drop my face into my palms. God dammit! Here I go fucking everything up again! He’s talking hypothetically for Christ’s sake! He’s not saying that this shit’s _going_ to happen. He’s just saying that it _might._ And _if_ it does he wants me to be prepared. It’s not like he had me drive us all the way out into the boonies and then give me that gun and tell me to fucking execute him. No, he’s doing what he does, which is look out for me. In the best way he knows how. Which is something that I can count on one hand in terms of both people having done for me, and people even _willing_ to _want_ to do for me. And how do I reward that? By freaking out at him, yelling at him, and generally being a nutcase! Nothing ever changes, huh Kate?!

 _God_!

I’m standing there in this forest clearing, flaming face in my hands, trying desperately to get some semblance of a grip when I feel a careful hesitant touch on my shoulder. When I don’t react adversely I feel him pulling me in toward him, always slowly, always giving me time and room to duck away. But I don’t. I don’t reciprocate either, not because I’m trying to be petty or bitchy, but because I just… can’t. It’s like my mind and anything functional or sane I may have ever possessed has just shut down. All I can do right now is cry. And it’s not dainty, cute little sniffles either. No it’s full blown crazy-tastic. Huge, gulping sobs, tears and snot and spit, uncontrollable breathing. All of a sudden I’m going insane!

And he doesn’t push me away, grossed out as he probably should be. He just wraps me up tighter in his mismatched arms, pulling me in against his solid chest, enveloping me in his warmth. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me as I sob and shake and wail. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter because this is perfect; this closeness. It feels safe. Protected. Like I’m cared about.

I realize then, as my wild crying slowly tapers off into little sniffles and only mildly hysteric double sucks of breath that I didn’t freak out because of what he just said and my interpretation of it. At least not completely. I think this was quite literally a breaking down of years of feelings, almost two whole decades. Because I didn’t ever really let myself cry or even feel! Not when my unborn baby brother died. Not when my mother was beating me up on a daily basis. Not when my father abandoned me. Not when I lost all semblance of a normal family life. Not when they died and it became clear that I would _never_ get that back… I never let myself really, truly, fully experience all those emotions. Even with Priya. I thought I had. But I hadn’t.

And now, what just happened… well, it was the straw that broke this camel’s back. Apparently. And it all had to come out. Finally. I feel bad though, even as I feel better and lighter too. I feel bad for putting the brunt of my long overdue breakdown on him. Couldn’t I have waited until tomorrow, or the next time he went on a Nazi punching spree and I was alone in my apartment? Or couldn’t I have scheduled this breakdown about a week before he arrived again? Now he probably thinks I’m a blubbering, bawling nutcase. And rightly so!

“’m sorry…” I mumble into his shirt, unable, or unwilling, not sure which myself, to lift my face and look him in the eyes.

A large hand strokes over my hair. “For what, doll?”

I still a bit, my mind seizing onto the pet name, even in it’s current state of embarrassed befuddlement. An endearment? Or just habit?

He pushes me back slightly when I don’t answer. Automatically I look up at him, then quickly away, sure my face must be flushed and blotchy and horrible, while my hair probably looks like I stuck my finger into an electric socket.

He attempts to tuck the wild coils behind an ear, but they just spring right back into position, so he resorts to holding them back with one hand, while also cupping my face gently. “Why're you sorry?”

“For… this? Freaking out on you like this?”

His smile is soft and reassuring, but there’s sadness in his eyes. “After I freaked out on you last night, I’d say it’s your turn.”

I sniff long and loud. “But you had an actual reason.”

“And you didn’t?”

I shrug. “Not compared to you…”

He takes my face between his palms, tilting it up. I’m immediately distracted, not only by the sensation of hot and cold on opposite cheeks, but by his face so close to mine, and the intensity in is jewel blue eyes. “Kate. Suffering's not a competition. You’ve been through as much shit as me. Doesn’t matter that it was different on the surface. You were bein’ hurt. You didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t your fault then and your reaction to it now isn’t either.”

“You believe that for yourself too?”

He sighs. “I believe it for you.”

“And I believe it for you.”

“I know.”

“Do you think you can you believe it for both of us someday?”

“Do you?”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you… can you hug me again?”

He doesn’t even hesitate, just pulls me right back into his arms. This time I hug back, wrapping my own arms around his solid frame, snuggling into his embrace, maybe a little too familiarly.

“Feel better?”

I nod. “I’m still not gonna shoot you.”

His whole body seems to expand on one giant breath. “I’m not askin' you to…”

“You kinda were.”

“I’m not askin’ you to _anymore_.” He elaborates. “At least not to kill. But you gotta promise me that if I ever attack you, you _will_ defend yourself. I don’t care if that’s shootin' me in the knee or the shoulder or wherever. Kate, listen.”

I’m shaking my head again and pulling away from him.

“Listen! I know you don’t wanna hurt me. But I don’t wanna hurt you either. If it comes to that please don’t let me hurt you. Hurt me instead.”

“So it’s okay for you to say you don’t wanna hurt me and that I should hurt you instead but it’s not okay for me to say the same thing?!” my voice is edging toward too shrill again.

“Yes. Because if I get to that point where I’d willingly hurt you… I’d be gone again. They’d have me again and I wouldn’t be _me._ I’d be… him. And I– _he_ would be out of control. And nothing would stop him. But you… you’d have control. If you take him out of play by shootin' him in the foot so he couldn’t hurt you… I know you wouldn’t want to, but I can guarantee you that what I’d do to you if I was ever in that bad a place… well it’d be a hundred times worse than being shot in the leg.”

“You mean he? What _he’d_ do to me if _he_ was ever in that bad a place.”

“Yes. He.”

I look up at him. I know he’s only making that him/he/Winter Soldier/I/me/Bucky Barnes distinction on my behalf. I know he doesn’t really believe it yet, but because I do believe it he’s trying to make it easier on me.

“I can’t promise it.”

He presses his lips together. “Just keep it in mind.”

I stare at him as hard as I can. He looks back at me calmly, though I can see emotions roiling behind his eyes. Finally I give a tiny nod, hating myself for it and not entirely sure that I’m not lying.

His breath leaves him in a whoosh. Relived. I realize he’s been holding it.

My heart cracks some more at the thought that he was so tense waiting for my answer to whether I’ll shoot him if he attacks me. That he even believes this might be a possibility in our future… Well, I guess I’ll just have to make sure that it never will be. He talks about protecting me. I’ll protect him right back! Somehow…

“We okay?” he asks quietly.

I nod. I think so.

“Ready to learn how to shoot a HYDRA agent?”

This makes me laugh, though it’s still in a bit of a wavering and wobbly voice. “Anything to put the fear of God into Nazi scum!”

He chuckles darkly then picks up the gun from where he discarded it earlier. Efficiently he walks me through the make and model, shows me how to load it, and where the safety is. “We’ll practice you loading it later. For now we’re gonna practice shooting. Come over here.”

He waves me closer, then has me pick up the gun. I hold it carefully, aware suddenly of the power behind this, rather unseeming piece of machinery. It’s heavier than I thought. His hands wrap around mine, correcting my grip. When he’s satisfied he spins us to face the line of cans on the fallen log.

He moves to stand directly behind me, murmuring further instructions, and I’m immediately reminded of every shitty romance movie where this is used as a trope to further the pseudo romantic plot. The guy, standing behind the girl, close enough to be almost-but-not-quite touching, looking over her shoulder, his arms around her as he shows her how to hold a golf club, or a baseball bat, or a gun.

I’ve always sneered disdainfully at scenes like these, but now that I’m in one I can’t deny the way my heartbeat speeds up, my hands become slippery with nervous sweat, and the flush that takes over my body and face. It’s practically hedonistic having him in this proximity and position to me, even though we’ve been closer than this before. Heck, we were hugging, completely molded against each other barely twenty minutes ago. But this… this feels different somehow. Hotter. More intimate. Almost… sensual.

“Pick one. Aim. Squeeze the trigger.” He says and for a second I don’t grasp that he means pick a can. Not pick a… a sex position or something.

_Jeez Kate! Get your mind out of the gutter. You’re holding a loaded weapon. Not the best time to be horny!_

Ok! I mentally select the can in the middle, because it seems closest. I’m still about 20 feet away though and glad, for an entirely different reason suddenly, that he’s standing behind me. Wouldn’t it be just like me to shoot him in the foot purely by accident?!

I try to remember everything he told me, sight carefully, squint, and pull the trigger. The resounding crash echoes through the woods, hurting my ears. The kick of the gun surprises me with its power and knocks me back a step. Or it would have if he weren’t so close behind me. But because he is, my momentum is stopped by his solid body. His hands catch me at the waist and I’m suddenly acutely aware of them. Both of them. Right there. Separated from my skin by a thin layer of cotton. The cold and the heat of his fingers seeps through that layer of cotton almost immediately making my body tingle beneath his palms and in… other places too…

I swallow hard. Distract! Distract! “I missed.”

“You didn’t account for the recoil.” He speaks softly in my ear, removing his hands once he’s steadied me. Absently I entertain the idea of stumbling, just so he’ll catch me again.

“I did. Or I tried to. But it was stronger than I expected.”

“Well, now you know what to expect.”

His hands on me again? Should I expect that? I’d like to… Wait, what?!

“You also squinted. I told you not to.”

I turn to look at him incredulous. “You were behind me. How could you tell?”

He gives me a smug look.

I scowl at him which makes him laugh. “Try again.” He instructs, prodding my shoulder. “Brace your legs a bit further apart this time and flex your knees. Think about absorbing the kick.”

“Yes, sir!” I say in an exaggeratedly joking and snotty voice, peeking at his reaction in my peripheral.

“Eyes front, cadet.” He says sternly, making me grin.

“Yes, sir.”

“Focus!”

I do. I aim. Squint. Remember not to. Aim again. Brace. And pull the trigger. My arms hammer back, but I manage not to trip backwards this time. I also don’t flinch at the noise. I _also_ don’t hit the can.

I lower the gun with an exasperated groan. “I suck at this.”

“You just started. And anyway, it doesn’t matter too much. I just want you to be able to have some protection. Usually the sight of a gun’s enough to make people back down.”

“What if they have a gun too?” I ask, thinking that since this is ‘Murica, it’ll be more likely than ya think.

“Then you’ll be in a standoff and the other person won’t fire either because they think if they do so will you.”

“Unless they can tell that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“You do know what you’re doing. You just can’t hit the target. Yet.”

“And if they can tell that?”

“They won’t.”

“How can _you_ tell.”

He gives me a look, then spins me around by my shoulders pointing at the cans. “Again. Focus.”

I do, squinting my eye just a teensy bit, sighting down the barrel at the can on the far left. I feel a cold metal hand place itself against my upper back between my shoulder blades, fingers spread wide, a five pointed star. It’s distracting as hell and I’m just about to point it out when his voice sounds in my ear. “Focus.”

That’s distracting too but it also somehow motivates me. I grit my teeth. Aim again. Squeeze the trigger. And…

The can goes spinning to the ground. Granted it was the one next to the one I was aiming for but no one needs to know that!

“I hit one!” I squeal, jumping up and down and turning to him with a huge smile on my face.

He’s right there, right next to me when I turn. We’re barely a hairsbreadth apart and if I could breathe right now then our breath would mingle.

“Well done.” He says softly.

He doesn’t draw back. I keep expecting him to but he doesn’t.

His eyes flick over my face, searching. His metal hand comes up, intent for my cheek, but it stops a millimeter away from my skin. I can feel the coolness of it radiating. His eyes search mine. I lean into the touch slightly, closing the hesitant distance for him. He brings his other hand up to cup my other cheek, this time without pause.

He’s still close. So close. Not close enough though. His eyes are large and soft. Vulnerable but in a different way than they were last night after his nightmare. They’re bluer than the sky above our heads, and they’re questioning.

Oh God. I think he wants to kiss me. The way those sapphire orbs keep flickering down to my lips then back up. I really think he wants to kiss me! So why doesn’t he? Haven’t I made it clear a million times now that I’m ready for more? Even though I have no shittin’ idea how to _do_ more. But ready for it, I am!

“Kate…?” he whispers, blowing a soft breath across my still face. It smells of coffee, and my own wintergreen toothpaste.

And I realize that he’s asking. He’s asking for permission, even though he knows what my answer will be. I’ve been practically throwing myself at him ever since he reappeared but he’s still making sure that I want it, right now, in this moment.

And I do. Of course I do. Because it’s him. And because he, unlike pretty much everyone in my life that came before him, actually cares about me and what I want and need, and how I feel.

I nod. Yes. Yesyesyes! A thousand times yes.

His right hand cups the back of my neck and distantly I’m aware that he’s not using his metal hand to do this, probably because he thinks I’d feel threatened, having it on my neck again. Even though this time would be in a gentle way… He uses it instead to stroke my cheek with his thumb, the other fingers tilting my chin up to the perfect angle.

Slowly he leans down. His eyes never leave mine, not until our lips are mere millimeters apart. That’s when he closes them. Closes them and kisses me.

Soft, then deep.

I melt in his arms. One of them, the metal one slips down to wrap around my middle, catching me and pulling me against him. Tight, but gentle at the same time. The gun slips from my hand, landing with a muffled thump in the dirt.

I can feel his kiss inside my whole body; it’s like hot liquid slowly pouring into me, warming me from the inside out. I feel glowy.

His lips move against mine, and even though I’ve given up control to him to let him lead I still feel the questions in them. He’s still asking permission every step of the way.

Suddenly though, his hands tighten almost desperately and he crushes me to him. There’s an urgency behind his kiss now, as if he’s afraid I’ll just vanish, or slip through his fingers. The metal ones clench into the shirt at the small of my back and absently I hear a ripping sound. His tongue invades my mouth almost hungrily and I let him in, letting myself be practically devoured, wanting it, needing it, losing myself in it, in him, _with_ him.

He draws in a sharp breath. “Kate…” the single word stabs through the silence of the forest clearing, making my eyes blink open. His own are squeezed shut tightly, almost like he’s in pain and trying not to cry. I bring one shaking hand up to caress his cheek. His face smooths out, relaxes almost immediately when he feels my touch, and his lips become soft and slow once more, hands touching me with reverence, almost like I’m fragile and might break in his grip.

It feels like both a blissful eternity, and only a few turbulent seconds have passed when he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, breathing slightly heavier and erratic than usual. His eyes stay closed for long seconds as we both catch our breaths. When they open they are twin flames of ice blue. He takes my face into his hands, hot and cold, and looks at me hard, like his heart is breaking. “I wanted to do that for so, so long.” He whispers voice rough and halting.

I can’t speak. I want to agree with him, tell him _me_ _too_ , but I can’t get the words out, and so I just nod over and over again, and hope he understands what I mean.

He kisses me again. Time slows. Blends together. Loses significance.

“…you have no idea how long…”

“…ever since I came back…”

“…months before that…”

“…when you puked over my shoes…”

“…when we watched the fireworks…”

“…when you asked me to run away with you…”

“…whenever you showed up with fresh bruises…”

“…when you were the first thing I saw after that nightmare…”

“…then this morning…”

“…and every single time I see you…”

Every word he speaks against my lips slips inside me, becomes a part of me, strengthens me, _heals_ me. I hang on to his wrists, feeling the cold metal slowly warm up to match my body temperature. I hang on tight so I don’t dissolve into a puddle and I kiss him back. Over and over again, I kiss him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, so I know it's practically a prerequisite for any bucky fic to have him call a female character doll but like it's practically canon and I just couldn't resist. It's cute. Might become a regular thing though I'm not sure yet. Maybe I'll look up more cute pet names from the forties. We shall see.  
> Anyway I hope you enjoyed that. For those of you who've been rooting for a kiss, here it is. Finally. The first of many. For those of you who've been rooting for more... well, it's coming. Eventually. Soon. Sort of.  
> Buuuuut there's also conflict on the horizon. Dun dun duuunnnn!  
> Okay, that's all from me today.  
> Thank you for reading.  
> Aaaalso shameless self advertisement: I've just started another Bucky/OC story called Seven Bloody Winters. This one's more about Winter Soldier Bucky and his time spent training the new crop of Winter Soldiers. Sooooo check that out if you want to...  
> OK bye!


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